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CHICAGO 

RHODES & McCLURE, 

1885. 



K^: 







Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1885, by 
JR. S. Rliodes, 

In the OflBce of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



>i< 




THE POET'S STAR-TUNED HARP TO SWEEP. 

E. B. Browning. 



HThere are in this loud stunning tide 
of human care and crime, 
with whom the melodies abide 
of the everlasting chimej 
who carry music in their heart 
through dusky lane and wrangling mart, 
plying their daily toil with busier feet, 
because their secret souls a holy strain repeat. 

J. Keble. 




CONTENTS. 



A Beautiful Legend _ 126 

A Christian Hymn. — Alfred Dommett 368 

A Christmas Hymn. — Edmund H. Sem^s- 339 

A Love Song. — A. P. Graves - 246 

A Song of Home.— ^m^7?/ C H. 31iUer. 216 

A Woman's Love Dream. — Nettie P. Houston 172 

A Hundred Years form Now.— l/?^s. Ford {Una.) 211 

A Wish.— S. Rogers - 266 

A Free Show. — Wyoming Kit 105 

A Farewell 86 

A Flower for the Dead 381 

A Singing Lesson. — Jean Ingelow 383 

A Little Word ...323 

A Petition to Time. — B.Cornwall 43 

A Portrait - 100 

A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea. — A. Cunningham 40 

A Musical Instrument. — E. B. Broionhig 133 

An Angel in the Houoe. — L. Hunt 28 

A Game Two Can Play 301 

A Farewell. — Charles EingsU y - 342 

Advice to a young man. — Ben Johnson - 330 

At Chess.— Sallie A. Brock... 207 

At a Solemn Music. — John Milton 275 

Annie and Willie's Prayer. — Mrs. S. P. Snoiv 296 

And Thou art Bead.— Byron - 327 

Antony and Cleopatra.— (9e?i. W. H. Lytle 287 

Angel Visits.— ilfrs Hemans 363 

After-Life of the Poet's Work.— Jo7m Keats 379 

Album Verses. — Various Authors 395 

After the Storm. — Mrs. Bishop Thompson 365 

Beautiful Things.— ^^Ze?i P. Allerton 26 

Beyond.— i?e?ir2/ Burton - 67 

Bed 88 

Bingen on the Rhine. — Mrs. Norton - - 149 

Bugle Song. — A. Tennyson ---- 177 

Beauty: A Sonnet.— TF. Shakspere 1 ..178 

(vii,) 



vni CONTENTS. 

Beautiful Hands.— .¥rs. Ellen H. Gates : 235 

Bishop Ken's Doxology 308 

Byron's Finest Image -..356 

Brown Lark and Blackbird 336 

Comfort-...- 49 

Christmas Chimes. — Various Authors 213 

Qo\m&e\.—Mary E. W. Sherwood -378 

Contrasts 391 

Drifting. — Calista Z. Grant 85 

Dead. — Alma Lattin 124 

David's Lament over Absalom. — N. P. Willis 258 

Death's First Day. — Byron 347 

Elegy Written in a Country Church Yard. — Thoma^s Gray 55 

Example. — . / Keble 70 

Extracts from Burns.— i^. G. Halleck .. - 102 

Extracts from " L' Allegro."— J. Milto7i - - 143 

Extracts from " Criticism."— .4. Pope 155 

Evening. — Lord Byron 335 

Farewell to My Harp 400 

Father, What'er of Earthly Bliss.— ^nna Steele.... 130 

Friendship. — W. Shakspere 195 

Faith. — Frances Anne Kemhle-. 87 

From the Castle of Indolence.— J Thompson 289 

Gillyflowers - - 89 

God's Ways 123 

God Knoweth. — Mrs. Mary G. Brainard 161 

Gone Before .- 341 

Hymn of Natui:e.—M^. O. B. Pea5od2/ .- -. 315 

Inward Music. — J. Keble ..- iii 

I'd Mourn the Hopes.— Tom Moore 78 

I Saw Thee Weep. — George G. Byron 324 

Kindred Keaits.— Mrs. Hemans 357 

Lead, Kindly Light. — J. H. Newman 35 

Little Brown Hands.— If ar-^/ fi". ^roiti 51 

Love's Philosophy.— P. B. Shelley 114 

Light and Darkness 241 

Lines Written While Boat Sailing at Evening.— IF. Words- 
worth 267 



CONTENTS. ix 

Lines Written in an Album. — Byron ... .394 

Majesty of God.— Thomas Sternhold 233 

Memories. — Barry Cornwall 160 

My Bride that Is to Be.—/. W. Riley - 96 

My Little Boy that Died.— Dinah Muloch-Craik 280 

Maiden and Butterfly 31 

My Angel, — Emily Huntington Miller 169 

Napoleon at Kest. — John Pierpont 325 

Nature's. — John G. Whittier 231 

Night and Death.—/. Blanco White .269 

New Poem by Lord Byron 273 

Never Despair. — William C. Richards 311 

"No, Not More Welcome."— Tom Jfore ..234 

Never Failed Us , 224 

Ode to Evening.— ir. CoZZms 293 

Ode to the Lark.— /. -ffogrg ^ 165 

Ode to the Brave.— TF. Collins 187 

Our Own.— Mrs. M. E Sangster _ . 75 

Our Infant in Heaven -.- 197 

On the Death of J. R. Drake.— i^. G. Halleck 252 

Over the River. — Nancie A. W. Priest -. .385 

Parting 125 

Patriotism— Sz> W.Scott 167 

Preface - xiii 

Questions. — Mrs. Rebecca N. Hazard 371 

Questions and Answers.— Goe^/ie. 393 

Rest 63 

Rock Me to Sleep, Mother.— .EJ. A. Allen (Florence Percy) 185 

Rain on the Roof. — Coates Kinney .304 

Revenge of Injuries. — Lady Elizabeth Carew.. 319 

Sabbath Morning Thoughts.— .E/. P. Brothwell 181 

Sad— A Short Tale in Short Words.— W.S.F.. 82 

" Sometime, We Say, and Turn our Eyes "_ 66 

Sunset with the 'Clouds 111 

Song of Lightning.— Geo. W. Cutter. 115 

gong on May Morning. — /. Milton 168 

Song of the Pioneers. — Wm. D. Gallagher 353 

Songs.— IF. Shakspere .225 

Sometime.— Ifrs. Mary Riley Smith 61 



X CONTENTS. 

Sonnet on his Blindness.— J Milton 152 

Spring.— iV. P. Willis. 250 

She Walks in Beauty.— ^^ron 310 

Saturday Afternoon.— A^. P. Willis 331 

Serenade. — Edward Coate Pinkney -- 343 

The Baby.— Changed from the Scotch 270 

The Bright Side.— Mrs. M. A. Kidder 47 

The Mother's Charge - 46 

The Soldier's Bream.— T. Campbell 45 

The Two Ages.— H. S. Leigh - - 36 

The Master's Touch.—//. Bonar ~ 24 

The King of Denmark's Ride.— 1/rs. Norton 19 

The Poet's Song. — A. Tennyson 17 

The Whistler 18 

The Rose.---£;. Waller 29 

The Valley of Silence.— Father Ryan 64 

The Blue and the Gray.— P. M. Finch 73 

The Cup Bearer. — Emelie Clare - 76 

The Old Church Bell.— TF. /Z". Sparks..... 80 

The Brook.— ^. Teyinyson 93 

The Nativity.— J". Milton 103 

The Youth Who Played Before He Looked 119 

The Two Villages.— /2ose Terry Cooke 120 

The Lover.— a Patmore 122 

The Dying Gladiator.— Lord Byron 135 

The Teacher's Dream.— TF. /T. Venahle 136 

The Meeting of the Waters.— Tom i)4oo?^e- 140 

The Lost Chovd.— Adelaide A. Proctor -141 

The Bivouac of the Dead.— T. OHara. -189 

The True Voei.— From Bailey's Festus 192 

The Finest English Epigram.— Pr. Doddridge 196 

''The Precious Gift of Song."— iVim Chitwood 203 

The Shell.— ^. Tennyson 209 

The Bndge.— Henry W. Longfellow 221 

The Sabbath of the Soul.— Mrs. Barbauld 228 

The Bower of Bliss— F. Spenser 229 

The Free Mind : A Sonnet.— 31. L. Garrison 242 

The Pride of Battery B --- 243 

The Source of Happiness.— Carlos Wilcox 247 

The Mysterious Music of Ocean 248 

The Winged Worshippers.— C/mrZes Sprague 261 



CONTENTS. Xi 

The Isle of the Long Ago.— S. F. Taylor 263 

The Dying Wife— ^. i/. T.. 271 

The Song of Steam.— 6?t3orge W. Gutter 277 

The Departure of the Swallow. — Wm. Howitt 220 

The Burial of Moses.— 3i?'s. C. F. Alexander 282 

The Old Cottage Clock _.. 321 

The Evening Cloud.— John Wilson 291 

The Alpine Flowers.— 3frs. L. H. Sigouriiey 333 

The Old Farm Gate.— ^itgewe /. fl^aZZ ...351 

The Water Lilly. — Mrs. Hemans 359 

The Destruction of Sennacherib. — Byron - 361 

The Sacred Harp. — Mrs. Hemans 372 

The Silent ChildiTQ^i.— Elizabeth Stuart Phelps 375 

The Everlasting Memorial. — Ho7'atius Bonar -- 387 

The Farewell to My Hoxm.—Tom Moore 400 

The Flowers' Year -367 

The Old Canoe.— Emily R. Page.. ---285 

The Beautiful City.— /. W.Riley ." 68 

The Touches of Her Hands.—/. W. Riley 44 

The Child of aKing.—Hattie E. Buell 200 

Two Views of Living. — Lord Byron ; Mrs. Barbauld - 25 

To Seneca Lakei — J. C. Percival - 23 

Tired. — Mrs. Helen Burnside - 32 

Three Characteristic Epitaphs - - 95 

Two Pictures. — Marian Douglas - 101 

Till Death Us Part.— i>ea72 Stanley ■ ----107 

To the Mocking Bird.— i^. IZ". Wilde 113 

Two Lovers. — George Eliot 153 

They Went a Fishing .-.-179 

Thanatopsis.— TF. G. Bryant -254 

To the Lady Anne Hamilton.— W. R. Spenser _ . . 260 

There Comes a Time - -265 

There Be None of Beauty's Daughters.— jB^ron- - - 306 

To the Organ.— 0. P. W. ---- 309 

To the Evening Wind.— TF. C. Bryant 313 

Things of Beauty.— /o/i?! Keats -- 389 

Through Night to Light.— A. Laighton 392 

Thy Voice.— P. J5. Marston 292 

Unheed Psalms 33 

Under Milton's Picture.— /o7m Dry den 23G 



XU CONTENTS. 

Vital Spark of Heavenly Flame.— ri. Pope 807 

Weary, Lonely, Restless, Homeless.— i^a/Zicr Ryan 38 

Who Has Robbed the Ocean Cave 1—John Shaiv 99 

" When to the Sessions."— W, Shakspere 188 

Woman.— j&. aS. Barret. _ 199 

Which Shall It Be?— ^. A. Allen 204 

"When the Song's Gone" 218 

Woman's Voice. — Edtvin Arnold ._ 237 

We Shall Know.—^nnze Herbert .-. 239 

We Have Seen His Star .370 

Who Will Care? .268 

What is Noble ?~Charles Swain 317 

Wyoming. — Fitz-Qreene Halleck. 344 

With the Stream 303 

You Remember It, Don't You?— Thos. H. Bayley .318 



LIST OF AUTHORS, 



Alexander 282 

Allen - 204 

Allerton -- 26 

Arnold-...--- 237 

Bailey--- .- 192-318 

Barbauld--- ---- 25-228 

Barret- 199 

^Bonar ....24-387 

Brainard 161 

Brock 207 

Browning - 133 

Brothwell 181 

Bryant 213.254 

Buell 200 

Burnside 32 

Burton 67 

Byron-- 135-273-306-310-324-327 
335-347-361-394. 

Campbell 45 

Carew - 319 

Chitwood 203 

Clare - 76 

Collins 187-293 

Cooke- 120 

Cornwall.-- 160 

Craik 280 

Cutter. 115-277 

Canningham- - 40 

Doddridge - 196 

Dommett 368 

Douglass 101 

Dryden .-. 236 



Eliot. 



Finck 73 

Ford 211-242 

Gallagher 353 

Garrison -. 242 

Gates -. 235 

Goethe _. 393 

Gray 55 

Graves - 246 

Grant 85 

Hall . 351 

Halleck 102-252-344 

Herbert 239 

Hemans 357-359-363-372 

Houston 172 

Howitt 220 

Hazard 371 

Hogg 165 

Hunt 28 

Johnson 330 

Keble - iii.70 

Keats 379-389 

Kemble 87 

Kidder 47. 

Kinney.. 304 

Kingsley 342 

Krout 51 

"Kit"-. _.-. 

Laighton 392 

Leigh -. 36 

Longfellow--- 221 

Lytle 287 



153 Marston. 
[xiii.) 



292 



LIST OF AUTHORS. 



Miller 169-216 

Hilton 103-143-152-168-27-» 

Moore 78-140-234-400 

Newman 35 

Norton 19-149 

O'Hara 189 

Page 285 

Patmore 122 

Peabody 315 

Percy -.. 185 

Percival 23 

Pinkney _ 343 

Pierpont 325 

Pope _ 159-307 

Plielps _ 375 

Priest 385 

Proctor - _ I4j^ 

Richards 311 

Riley 68-96 

Rogers 266 

Ryan 38 

Sangster 75 

Scott 167 

Sears 339 

--. 178-188-195-225 



Shaw--- 99 

Sherwood 378 

Shelly- 114 

Sigourney - 333 

Snowe -.. 296 

Spenser 229-260 

Sprague 261 

Swain 317 

Sparks - 80 

Stanley 107 

Sternhold 233 

Steele 130 

Taylor 263 

TennysQn - - 17-93-177-209 

Thompson 289-365 

"Una" 211 

Waller 29 

Whittier. 231 

White 269 

Willis 331-258 

Wilcox - 247 

Wilson 291 

Wordsworth 267 

Wilde 113 

Venable ^ 136 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Bay of Naples ..-feontispiece. 

*' On Thy Fair Bosom Waveless Stream" 22 

"Touch us Gently, Time" - -- 42 

" No Children Eun to Lisp their Sire's Return" 54 

"No More Shall the War Cry Sever"...- 72 

The First Reporter 92 

" A Shadowy Landscape Dipped in Grold" 110 

" As a Reed with the Reeds of the River" .132 

Bingen on the Rhine 148 

Musical Cherub Soar Singing Away - 164 

Minnehaha Falls. "And the Cataract Leaps in Glory" 176 

Mother Come Back from the Echoless Shore - - 184 

Prairie Songsters 202 

"LightonThy Hills, Jerusalem!" 338 

The Old Farm Gate --350 

" Awe-struck the Silent Children Hear 374 



(XV.) 



GEMS OF POETRY, 



THE POET'S SONa 



A. TENNYSON. 

HE rain had fallen, the Poet arose, 

He passed by the town and out of the street, 

A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, 
■ And waves of shadow went over the wheat. 

And he sat him down in a lonely place, 
And chanted a melody low and sweet, 

That made the wild swan pause in her cloud. 
And the lark drop down at his feet. 

The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee. 

The snake slipt under a spray, 
The wild hawk stood ^vith the down on his beak. 
And stared with his foot on the prey, 
And the nightingale thought, " I have sung 
many songs. 
But never a one so gay, 
For he sings of what the world will be 
"When the years have died away." 





THE WHISTLER. 



"You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart who 
stood, 

While he sat on a corn- sheaf at dayhght's decline — 
" You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood; 

I wish that Danish boy's whistle was mine." 

" And what would you do with it? Tell me," she said, 
While an arch smile played over her beautiful face, 

" I would blow it," he answered, " and then my fair maid 
Would fly to my side and there take her place." 

" Is that all you wish for? That may be yours 
Without any magic," the fair maiden cried ; 

" A favor so light, one's good nature secures," 
And she playfully seated herself by his side. 

" I would blow it again," said the youth, " and a charm 
Would work so that not even modesty's cheek 

Would be able to keep from my neck your fine arm ! " 
She smiled as she laid her fair arm 'round his neck. 

" Yet once more would I blow, and the magic divine 
Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss — 

You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine, 
And your lips stealing past would give me a kiss." 

The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee^ 

" What a fool of yourself with a whistle you'd makej 

For only consider how silly 'twould be 

To sit there and whistle for — what you might take." 

18 

— Northwestern Agriculturis.t- 



THE KING OF DENMAKK'S RIDE. 




MRS. NORTON. 

ORD was brought to the Danish king 
(Hurry !) 
That the love of his heart lay suffering 
And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; 

(O ride as though you were flying!) 
Better he loves each golden curl 
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl 
Than his rich crown -jew els of ruby and pearl: 
And his Rose of the Isles is dying! 

Thirty nobles saddled with speed! 

(Hurry!) 
Each one mounting a gallant steed 
Which he kept for battle and days of need; 

(O ride as though you were flying!) 
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank: 
"Worn-out chargers staggered and sank; 
Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst; 
But ride as they Avould, the King rode first, 

For his rose of the Isles lay dying! 

His nobles are beaten, one by one; 

(Hurry!) 
They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; 
His little fair page now follows alone, 

For strength and for courage trying! 
The king looked back at that faithful child; 

19 



20 GEMS OF POETRY. 

Wan was the face that answering smiled; 
They passed the drawbridge with clattering din, 
Then he dropped; and only the King rode in 
Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying! 

The King blew a blast on his bugle horn; 

(Silence!) 
No answer came; but faint and forlorn 
An echo returned on the cold gray morn, 

Like the breath of a spirit sighing. 
The castle portal stood grimly wide; 
None welcomed the King from that weary ride; 
For dead, in the light of the dawning day, 
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, 

Who had yearned for his voice while dying! 

The panting steed, with a drooping crest, 

Stood weary. 
The King returned from her chamber of rest, 
The thick sobs choking in his breast; 

And, that dumb companion eying, 
The tears gushed forth which he strove to check; 
He bowed his head on his charger's neck: 
" O steed, that every nerve didst strain, 
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain 

To the halls where my love lay dying! " 




" On thy fair bosom, waveless stream." 



TO SENECA LAKE. 




J. G, PERCIVAL. 

N thy fair bosom, silver lake, 

The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, 
And round his breast the ripples break. 

As down he b?ars before the gale. 

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream. 
The dipping paddle echoes far. 

And flashes in the moonlight gleam, 
And bright reflects the polar star. 



The waves along thy pebbly shore, 

As blows the north wind, heave their foam^ 

And curl around the dashing oar. 
As late the boatman hies him home. 

How sweet, at set of sun, to view 
Thy golden mirror spreading wide. 

And see the mist of mantling blue 

Float round the distant mountain's side ! 

At midnight hour, as shines the moon, 
A sheet of silver spreads below, 

And swift she cuts, at highest noon, 

Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake, 

O, I could ever sweep the oar. 

When early birds at morning wake, 

And evening tells us toil is o'er ! 
23 



THE MASTER'S TOUCH. 



H. BONAK; 




N the still air the music lies unheard; 

In the rough marble beauty hides unseen: 
To make the music and the beauty, needs 

The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel keen. 

Great Master, touch us with thy skillful hand; 

Let not the music that is in us die ! 
Great Sculptor, hew and polish us; nor let, 

Hidden and lost, thy form within us lie! 



Spare not the stroke ! do with us as thou wilt! 

Let there be naught unfinished, broken, marred ; 
Complete thy purpose, that we may become 

Thy perfect image, thou our God and Lord ! 




24 



TWO VIEWS OF LIVING. 



My life is in the sere and yellow leaf, 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone. 

The fire that on my bosom preys 
Is lone as some volcanic isle; 
No torch is lighted at its blaze — 
A funeral pile. 

— Lord Byi'on. 

Life! I know not what thou art, 
But know that thou and I must part; 
And when, or how, or where we met, 
I own to me's a secret yet. 

Life! we've been long together 
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear, — 
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; 
— Then steal away, give little warning, 

Choose thine ow.n time, 
Say not Good Night, — but in some brighter clime 

Bid me Good Morning. 

— Mrs. Barhauld. 



V^^ tVl/ 




BEAUTIFUL THINGS. 



ELLEN P. ALLERTON. 




EAUTIFUL faces are those that wear, 
It matters little if dark or fair — 
Wholesoulecl honesty printed there. 

Beautiful eyes are those that show, 

Like crystal panes where hearthfires glow. 

Beautiful thoughts that burn below. 



Beautiful lips are those whose words 
Leap from the heart like songs of birds, 
Yet whose utterance prudence girds. 

Beautiful hands are those that do 

Work that is earnest and brave and true, 

Moment by moment the long day through. 

Beautiful feet are those that go 
On kindly ministries to and fro, 
Down lowliest ways if God wills it so. 

Beautiful shoulders are those that bear 
Ceaseless burdens of homely care, 
With patient grace and daily prayer. 

Beautiful lives are those that bless. 

Silent rivers of happiness. 

Whose hidden fountains but few can guess. 



Beautiful things. 



27 



Beautiful twilight, at set of sun ; 
Beautiful goal, with race well run ; 
Beautiful rest, with work well done. 

Beautiful graves, where grasses creep, 
Where brown leaves fall, where drifts lie deep 
Over worn-out hands ; oh, beautiful sleep ! 




AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. 



L. HUNT. 




OW sweet it were, if without feeble fright, 
Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, 
An angel came to us, and we could bear 
To see him issue fi'om the silent air 
At evening in our room, and bend on ours 
His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers 
News of dear friends, and childi'en who have 
never 
Been dead indeed, —as we shall know forever. 
Alas! wo think not what we daily see 
About our hearths, angels, that are to be, 
Or may be if they will, and we prepare 
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air, — 
A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings 
In unison with ours, breeding? its future wings. 




o ^i^^^'^^. 



THE EOSE. 



E. WALLER. 



Go, lovely rose I 
Tell her that wastes her tirae on me, 

That now she knows, 
When I resemble her to thee, 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 




Tell her that's young, 
And shuns to have her gi'aces spied. 

That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts where no men abide, 
Thou must have uncommended died. 



30 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired, 

Bid her come forth, 
Suffer herself to be desired. 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die, that she, 
The common fate of all things raie 

May read in thee. 
How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 

[A lady of Cambridge, England, loaned Waller's poems to H. 
K. White, who added the following stanza to the above poem; 
thus illustrating the difference between earthly and heavenly 
inspiration:) 

" Yet, though thou fade, 
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; 

And teach the maid 
That goodness Time's rude hand defies; 
That Virtue lives when Beauty dies." 




;m)^ 


f" 


m 


\ 

D 
^ 


mi ^^ 





MAIDEN AND BUTTEEFLY. 



Within the sun-flecked shadows of a forest glade, 
Seeking for wildwood flowers, a little maid 
Sang to her happy heart, as to and fro 
She wandered 'mid the swaying grasses lovf ; 
When suddenly a brilliant butterfly 
Flashed, like a jewel in the sunshine, by 
And, darting swiftly now that way, now this, 
Alighted on her lips and stole a kiss. 

"Forgive me, sweet!" he cried. "I swear to you, 
I only meant to spy a drop of dew 
From out the fragrant chaWce of these roses bright, 
But, hovering undecided where to 'light, 
I saw your lily- face uplifted here. 
And thought your red, red lips were rosebuds, dear I" 

Tossing her sunny curls, she raised her head. 
As, with an air of queenly grace, she said: 
" This once I will forgive ; but, pray, beware 

31 



32 



GEMS OF POETRY. 

How often you mistake for blossoms rare 

A maiden's lips ! " She watched him flutter near. 

" To think mine, roses, you are welcome, dear. 
But," with a merry glance, half arch, half shy, 

" They do not bloom for every butterfly! " 



"TIRED. 



MISS HELEN BUKNSIDE. 

"Tired!" Oh yes! so tired, dear. 

The day has been very long; 
But shadowy gloaming draweth near, 

'Tis time for the even song, 
I'm ready to go to rest at last, 

Ready to say " Good night:" 
The sunset glory darkens fast, 

To-morrow will bring me light. 

It has seemed so long since morning-tide. 

And I have been left so lone, 
Young smiling faces thronged my side, 

When the early sunlight shone; 
But they grew tired long ago. 

And I saw them sink to rest, 
With folded hands and brows of snow, 

On the green earth's mother breast. 

Sing once again, " Abide with me," 

That sweetest evening hymn ; 
And now " Good' night!" I cannot see, 

The light has grown so dim ; 
"Tired!" Ah, yes, so tired, dear, 

I shall soundly sleep to-night. 
With never a dream, and never a fear 

To wake in the morning light. 



UNHEEDED PSALMS. 



God hath His sohtudes, unpeopled yet, 

Save by the peaceful life of bird and flower, 

Where, since the world's foundation, He hath set 
The hiding of His power. 

Year nfter year His rains make fresh and green 
Lone wastes of prairies, where, as daylight goes 

Legions of bright-hued blossoms all unseen 
Their carven petals close. 

Year after year unnumbered forest leaves 
Expand and darken to their perfect prime; 

Each smallest growth its destiny achieves 
In His appointed time. 

Amid the strong recesses of the hills, 

Fixed by His word, immutable and calm, 

The murmuring river all the silence fills 
With its unheeded psalm. 

From deep to deep the floods lift up their voice, 
Because His hand hath measured them of old; 

The far outgoings of the morn rejoice 
His wonders to unfold. 



34 GEMS OF POETEY. 

The smallest cloudlet Avrecked in distant storms, 
That wanders homeless through the summer 
skies, 

Is reckoned in His purposes, and forms 
One of His argosies. 

Where the perpetual mountains patient wait, 
Girded with purity before His throne, 

Keeping from age to age inviolate 
Their everlasting crown; 

Where the long- gathering waves of ocean break 
With ceaseless music o'er untrodden strands. 

From isles that day by day in silence wake. 
From earth's remotest lands. 

The anthem of His praise shall uttered be; 
All works created on His name shall call. 
And laud, and bless His holy name, for He 
Hath pleasure in them all. 




IM^ 

^=^ o 



§^^ 



LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT. 



J. n. NEWMAN. 

Lead, kindly light, amid the encircling gloom, 

Lead Thou me on; 
The night is dark, and I am far from home, 

Lead Thou me on. 
Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see 
The distant scene; one step enough for me. 

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou 

Shouldst lead me on; 
I loved to choose and see my path; but now 

Lead Thou me on. 
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, 
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years' 

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still 

Will lead me on 
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 

The night is gone. 
And with the morn those angel faces smile 
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile 

Meanwhile, along the narrow, rugged path 

Thyself hast trod. 
Lead, Savior, lead me home in childlike faith, 

Home to my God, 
To rest forever after earthly strife. 
In the calm light of everlasting life. 

35 



THE TWO AGES. 



H. S. LEIGH. 

Folks were happy as days were long, 

In the old Arcadian times: 
When life seemed only a dance and song 
. In the sweetest of all sweet climes. 
Our world grows bigger, and stage by stage, 

As the pitiless years have rolled. 
We've quite forgotten the Golden Age, 

And come to the Age of Gold. 

Time went by in a sheepish way 

Upon Thessaly's plains of yore. 
In the nineteenth century lambs at play 

Mean mutton, and nothing more. 
Our swains at present are far too sage 

To live as one lived of old: 
So they couple the crook of the Golden Age 

With a hook in the Age of Gold. 

From Corydon's reed the mountains round 

Heard news of his latest flame; 
And Tityrus made the woods resound 

With echoes of Daphne's name. 
They kindly left us a lasting guage 

Of their musical art, we're told: 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



37 



And the Pandean pipe of the Golden Ago 
Brings mirth to the Age of Gold. 

Dwellers in huts and in marble hall — 

From shepherdess up to queen — 
Cared little for bonnets, and less for shawl, 

And nothing for crinoline. 
But now simplicity's not the rage, 

And it's funny to think how cold 
The dress they wore in the Golden Age 

Would seem in the Age of Gold. 

Electric telegraphs, printing, gas, 

Telephones, balloons and steam. 
Are little events that have come to pass 

Since the days of the old regime; 
And in spite of Lempriere's dazzling page, 

I'd give — though it might seem bold — 
A hundred years of the Golden Age 

For a year of the Age of Gold. 




WEARY. LONELY, RESTLESS, HOMELESS. 



FATHEE EYAN. 

Weary hearts ! weary hearts ! by cares of life oppressed, 
Ye are wandering in the shadows, ye are sighing for the 

rest; 
There is darkness in the heavens, and the earth is bleak 

below, 
And the joys we taste to-day may to-morrow turn to woe. 
Weary hearts! God is rest. 

Lonely hearts! lonely hearts! 'tis but a land of grief; 

Ye are pining for repose, ye are longing for relief; 

What the world hath never given, kneel and ask of God 

above, 
And your grief shall turn to gladness if you lean upon His 

love. 

Lonely hearts ! God is love. 



Restless hearts! restless hearts! ye are toiling night and 

day. 
And the flowers of life, all withered, leave but thorns along 

your way; 
Ye are waiting, ye are waiting till your toilings here shall 

cease, 
And your ever-restless throbbing is a sad, sad prayer for 

peace. 

Restless hearts! God is peace. 



WEARY, LONELY, RESTLESS, HOMELESS. 39 

Broken hearts ! broken hearts ! ye are desolate and lone. 
And low voices from the past o'er your present ruins moan; 
In the sweetest of your pleasures there was bitterest alloy, 
And a starless night hath followed on the sunset of your 

joy- 
Broken hearts! God is joy. 

Homeless hearts! homeless hearts! through the dreary, 

dreary years. 
Ye are lonely, lonely wanderers, and your way is wet with 

tears ; 
In bright or blighted places, wheresoever ye may roam, 
Ye look away from earthland, and ye murmur, " Where is 

Home?" 

Homeless hearts! God is home. 




A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. 




A. CUNNINGHAM. 

W^ET sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast, 
And fills the white and rustling- sail, 

And bends the gallant mast, — 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 

AVhile,like the eagle free. 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves 

Old Eno-land on our lee. 



O for a soft and gentle wind ! 

I heard a fair one cry ; 
But give to me the swelling breeze, 

And white waves heaving high, — 
The while waves heaving high, my lads. 

The good ship tight and free ; 
The world of waters is our home, 

And merry men are w^e. 

There's a tempest in yon horned moon, 

And lightning in yon cloud; 
And hark! the music, mariners, 

The wind is wak'ning loud,— 
The wind is wak'ning loud, my boys, 

The lightning flashes free ; 
The hollow oak our palace is, 

Our heritaofe the sea. 




A PETITION TO TIME. 

B. CORNWALL. 

Tonch US gently. Time ! 

Let us glide adown thy stream 
Gently,— as we sometimes glide , 

Through a quiet di'eam ! 
Humble voyagers are we, 
Husband, wife, and children three, — 
(One is lost,-an angel fled 
To the azure overhead !) 

Touch us gently, Time ! 

We've not proud nor so ring vving»; 
Our ambition, our conte?it, 

Lies in simple things. 
Humble voyagers are we. 
O'er life's dim, unsounded ^en, 
Seeking only some calm climo : — 
Touch us gently, gentle Time ! 




THE TOUCHES OF HER HANDS 



J. W. RILEY. 



^^^^^g^-'l 




HE touches of her hands are hke +he fall 

Of velvet snowdakes ; like the touch of Jo\^ n 

The peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall ; 

The flossy fondlings of the thistle wisp 
Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown 

The blighting frost has turned from green, 'x 
crisp. 

Soft as the falling of the dusk at night. 
The touches of her hands, and the delight — 

The touches of her nands ! 
The touches of her hands are like the dew 
That falls so softly down no one e'er knew 
The touch thereof save to lovers like to one 
Astray in lights where ranged Endymion. 

Oh, rarely soft, the touches of her hands, 
As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands ; 

Or pulse of dying fay ; or fairy sighs ; 
Or — in between the midnight and the dawn, 
When long unrest and tears and fears are gone — 

Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyee, 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 



T. CAMPBELL. 

Our bugles sang truce,- -for the night-cloud had lower'd, 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 

And thousands had sunk on the ground over-power'd, 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
By the wolf -scaring fagot that guarded the slain; 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw. 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track: 

'Twas autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way 

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; 

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft. 

And knew the sweet strain that the corn -reapers sung. 

Then -pledged we the wine- cup, and fondly I swore. 
From my home and my weeping friends never to part; 

My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er. 

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fullness of heart. 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



"Stay, stay with us, — rest, tlion art weary and worn;" 
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; — 

But sorrow return' d with the dawning of morn, 
And the voice in my dreamin<r ear melted away. 



THE MOTHER'S CHARGE. 



"Behold,! commit my daughter unto thee of special trust. 

Precious and lovely, I yield her to thee! 
Take her, the gem of thy dwelling to be! 
She who was ever my solace and pride 
Glides from my bosom to cling to thy side. 

Guard her with care, which must never decline ; 
Make her thy day-star — she long hath been mine: 
Lonely henceforth is my desolate lot, 
What is the casket where the jewel is not ? 

Take her and pray that thine arm may be strong, 
Safely to shield her from danger and wrong. 
Be to her all that her heart hath portrayed, 
Then o'er thy j^ath there will gather no shade. 

Now she doth love thee as one without spot — 
Dreams of no sorrow to darken her lot- 
Joyful, yet tearful, I yield her to thee; 
Take her, the light of thy dwelHng to be! 




THE BEIGHT SIDE. 



MRS. M. A. KIDDER. 



There is many a rest on the road of life, 

If we only would stop to take it; 
And many a tone from the better land, 

If the querulous heart would wake it. 
To the sunny soul that is full of hope, 

And, whose beautiful trust never faileth. 
The grass is green, and the flowers are bright, 

Though the Wintry storm prevaileth. 

Better to hope, though the clouds hang low, 

And to keep the eyes still lifted; 
For the sweet blue sky will soon peep through, 

When the ominous clouds are rifted. 
There was never a night without a day. 

Nor an evening without a morning; 
And the darkest hour, the proverb goes, 

Is just before the dawning. 

There is many a gem in the path of life, 

W^hich we pass in our idle pleasure. 
That is richer far than the jewelled crown. 

Or the miser's hoarded treasure; 
It may be the love of a little child. 

Or a mother's prayer to heaven. 
Or only a beggar's grateful thanks 

For a cup of water given. 



48 GEMS OF POETRY. 

Better to weave in the web of life 

A bright and golden filling, 
And to do God's will with a ready heart. 

And hands that are swift and willing, 
Than to snap the delicate silver threads 

Of our curious lives asunder, 
And then blame heaven for the tangled ends, 

And sit to grieve and wonder. 




COMFOET. 



If there should come a time as well there may, 

When sudden tribulation smites thine heart, 
And thou dost come to me for help, and stay. 

And comfort — how shall I perform my part ? 
How shall I make my heart a resting-place, 

A shelter safe for thee when terrors smite ? 
How shall I bring the sunshine to thy face, 

And dry thy tears in bitter woes' despite ? 
How shall I win strength to keep my voice. 

Steady and firm, although I hear thy sobs ? 
How shall I bid thy fainting soul rejoice. 

Nor mar the counsel of mine own heart-throbs ? 
Love, my love, teaches me a certain way, 
So, if the dark hour comes, I am thy stay. 

I must live higher, nearest the reach 

Of angels in their blessed truthfulness, 
Learn their usefulness, ere I can teach 

Content to thee whom I would greatly bless. 
Ah, me ! what woe were mine if thou should' st come. 

Troubled, but trusting unto me for aid, 
And I should meet thee, powerless and dumb. 

Willing to help thee, but confused, afraid? 
It shall not happen thus, for I will rise, . 

God helping me, to higher lite, and gain 



50 



GEMS OF POETRY 



Courage and stTGngth to thee counsel wise. 
And deeper love to bless thee in thy pain. 

Fear not, dear love, thy trial hour shall be 
The dearest bond between my heart and thea 




LITTLE BROWN HANDS. 



MARY H. KROUT. 



[The following poem, written by Mary H. Krout, of Crawfords- 
ville, Ind., ten years ago, when its author was in her thirteenth 
year, is one of the most beautiful and expressive ever penned in 
the English language, and should find a place throughout the 
length and breadth of America wherever the dignity of labor is 
recognized:] 

They drive home the cows from the pasture, 

Up through the long, shady lane, 
Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat field, 

That is yellow with ripening grain. 
They find, in the thick waving grasses, 

Where the scarlet- lipped strawberry grows. 
They gather the earliest snowdrops. 

And the first crimson buds of the rose. 

They toss the hay in the meadow. 

They gather the elder bloom white. 
They find where the dusky grapes purple 

In the soft tinted October light. 
They know where the apples hang ripest, 

And are sweeter than Italy's wines; 
They know where the fruit hangs the thickest, 

On the long, thorny blackberry vines. 

They gather the delicate seaweeds, 

51 



52 GEMS OF POETRY. 

And build tiny castles of sand: 
They pick up the beautiful sea shells- 
Fairy barks that have drifted to land. 
They wave from the tall, rocking tree tops, 

Where the Oriole's hammock nest swings, 
And at night time are folded in slumber 
By a song that a fond mother sings. 

Those who toil bravely are strongest; 

The humble and poor become great: 
And from those brown -handed children 

Shall grow mighty rulers of state. 
The pen of the author and statesman. 

The noble and wise of the land, 
The sword and chisel and palette 

Shall be held in the little brown hand. 









"No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or olimb his knees the envied kiss to share." 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 



THOMAS GRAY. 

HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

^^ Now fades the glimmering landscape on the 
^ la sight, 

i And all the air a solemn stillness holds. 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: 

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's 
shade, * 
Where heaves the turf in many a moldering 
heap, 
Each in his narrow cell forever laid. 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn^ 

55 



56 GEMS OF POETRY. 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 

How jocund did they drive their team afield! 

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await alike the inevitable hour : 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye Proud! impute to these the fault. 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fi'etted 
vault. 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust. 

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 57 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll; 

Chill Penury repress' d their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 

The. dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
A.nd waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood, 

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 

The applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise. 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined, 

Forbade to wade throuo^h slauo^hter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of Mercy on mankind; 

The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide. 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame, 

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 



GEMS OF POETRY. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learn' d to stray; 

Along the cool sequester' d vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet e'en these bones, from insult to protect, 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
deck'd, 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd 
Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply, 
And many a holy text around she strews. 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind:!^ 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies. 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 

E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries. 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonor'd dead. 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate. 

If chance, by lonely Contemplation lead. 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 

Haply some hoary- headed swain may say, 

" Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn. 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 59 

" There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic root so high, 

Hjs hstless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn. 
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; 

Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn. 
Or crazed with care, or cross' d in hopeless love. 

" One morn I miss'd him on the accustom' d hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; 

Another came, nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he: 

'' The next, with dirges due, in sad arraj'. 

Slow through the churchway-path we saw him 
borne. 

Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn:" 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rest^ his head upon the lap of Earth, 
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown: 

Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,- 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send; 

He gave to misery all he had — a tear; 

He gain'd from Heaven — 'twas all he wish 'd— a 
friend. 

No further seek his merits to disclose. 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 



60 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



(There they alike in trembling hope repose) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 




SOMETIME. 



MRS. MAY RILEY SMITH. 

Sometime, when all life's lessons have been learned, 

And sun and stars forevermore have set. 
The things which our weak judgment here had spuria ed. 

The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wei; 
Will flash before us out of life's dark night. 

As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue; 
And we shall see how all God's plans were right. 

And how what seemed reproof was love most tru© 

And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh, 

God's plans go on as best for you and me; 
How, when we called, he heeded not our cry, 

Because his wisdom to the end could see. 
And even as prudent parents disallow 

Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, 
So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now 

Life's sweetest things, because it seemeth good. 



And if, sometimes, commingled with life's wine, 
We find the wormwood and rebel and shrink, 

Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine 
Pours out this portion for our lips to drink. 

And if some friend we love is lying low. 
Where human kisses cannot reach his face, 

61 



62 GEMS OF POETRY 

Oh, do not blame the loving Father so. 

But wear your sorrow with obedient grace. 

And you shall shortly know that lengthened breath 

Is not the sweetest gift God sends his friend, 
And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death 

Conceals the fairest boon his love can send. 
If we could push ajar the gates of life, 

And stand within and all God's working see, 
We could interpret all this doubt and strife. 

And for each mystery could find a key ! 

But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart! 

God's plans, like lilies, pure and white, unfold; 
We must not tear the close- shut leaves apart, 

Time will reveal the calyxes of gold. 
And if, through patient toil, we reach the land 

Where tired feet, with sandals loose, may rest, 
"When we shall clearly know and understand — 

I think that we will say, " God knew the best!" 




REST. 



[The following lines were found under the pillow of a soldier 
lying dead in a hospital near Port Royal, South Carolina. We 
have never, we believe, seen verses more true and touching. 
They are a new and perfect expression of world-wide feeling:] 

I lay me down to sleep, with little thought of care, 
Whether waking find me here, or there. 

A bowing, burdened head, that only asks to rest. 
Unquestioning, upon a loving breast. 

My good right hand forgets its cunning now ; 
To march the weary march I know not how. 

I am not eager, bold, nor strong — all that is past, 
I'm readynow to die, at last, at last. 

My half day's work is done, and this is all my part: 
I give a patient God my patient heart, 

And grasp his banner still, though all its blue be dim, 
These stripes, no less than stars, lead after Him. 




THE VALLEY OF SILENCE. 



FATHER RYAN. 



^^^WALK down the Valley of Silence 

pi Down the dim, voiceless valley alone ; 
And I hear not the fall of a footstep 

Around me — save God's and my own, 
'And the hush of my heart is as holy 
As hovers where angels have flown. 

Long ago was I weary of voices, 

Whose music my heart could not win: 
Long ago was I w^eary of noises, 

That fretted my soul with their din; 
Long ago was I weary of i:)laces, 

Where I met but the human and sin. 




And still I pined for the perfect, 

And still found the false with the true, 

I sought mid the human for heaven, 
But caught a mere glimpse of the blue ; 

I wept as the clouds of the world veiled 
Even that glimpse from my view. 

I toiled on heart-tired of the human, 
I moaned mid the mazes of men, 

64 



THE VALLEY OF SILENCE. 65 

Till I knelt, long ago, at an Altar, 

And heard a Voice call me ; since then 

I walk down the Valley of Silence, 
That lies far beyond mortal ken. 

Do you ask what I found in the Valley ? 

'Tis my trysting place with the Divine. 
When I fell at the feet of the Holy, 

And about me the Voice said, "Be Mine," 
There arose from the depths of my spirit, 
■ An echo, "My heart shall be Thine." 

Do you ask how I live in the Valley ? 

I weep, and I dream, and I pray: 
But my tears are as sweet as the dew drops, 

That fall on the roses of May ; 
And my prayer like a perfume from censer 

Ascendeth to God night and day. 

In the hush of the Valley of Silence, 

I di^eam all the songs that I sing; 
And the music floats down the dim valley. 

Till each finds a word for a wing. 
That to men, like the doves of the deluge. 

The message of Peace they may bring. 

But far out on the deep there are billows. 

That never shall break on the beach; 
And I have heard songs in the Silence, 

That never shall float into speech; 
And I have had dreams in the Valley, 

Too lofty for language to reach. 

And I have seen forms in the Valley, 

Ah, me! how my spirit was stirred; 
And they wear holy veils on their faces, . 



66 GEMS OF POETKY. 

Their footsteps can scarcely be heard 
They pass through the Valley like virgins, 
Too pure for the touch of a word. 

Do you ask me the place of the Valley, 
Ye hearts that are harrowed by care ? 

It lieth afar between Mountains, 
And God and His angels are there; 

And one is the dark Mount of Sorrow, 
The other the bright Mount of Prayer. 



' Some time," we say, and turn our eyes 
Toward the far hills of Paradise, 
Some day, some time, a sweet new rest 
Shall blossom, flower-like in each breast. 
Some time, some day our eyes shall see 
The faces kept in memory ; 
Some day their hands shall clasp our hands. 
Just over in the morning lands. 
Some day our ears shall hear the song 
Of triumph over sin and wrong. 
Some time, some time, but ah! not yet! 
Still we will wait and not forget, 
That " some time all these things shall be, 
And rest be given to you and me." 
So let us wait, though years move slow. 
That glad " some time" will come, we know. 



BEYOND. 

HENRY BURTON. 



Never a word is said 

But it trembles in the air, 

And the truant voice is sped, 

To vibrate everywhere; 

And perhaps far off in eternal years 

The echo may ring upon our ears. 

Never are kind acts done 
To wipe the weeping eyes, 
But like the flashes of the sun. 
They signal to the skies ; 
And up above the angels read 
How we have helped the sorer need. 

Never a day is given, 

But it tones the after years. 

And it carries up to heaven 

Its sunshine or its tears; 

While the to-morrows stand and wait, 

The silent mutes by the outer gate. 

There is no end to the sky, 

And the stars are everywhere, 

And time is eternity, 

And the here is over there; 

For the common deeds of the common day 

Are ringing bells in the far-away. 

67 



THE BEAUTIFUL CITY. 



J. W, RILEY. 




HE Beautiful City ! Forever 
Its rapturous praises resound, 
And we fain would behold it — but never 

A glimpse of its glory is found. 
We slacken our lips at the tender 

White breasts of our mothers to hear 
Of its marvelous beauty and splendor ; — 
We see — but the gleam of a tear ! 



Yet never the story may tire us — 

First graven in symbols of stone — 
Rewritten on scrolls of papyrus, 

And parchment, and scattered and blown 
By the winds of the tongues of all nations. 

Like a litter of leaves wildly whirled 
Down the rack of a hundred translations, 

From the earliest lisp of the world 



We compass the earth and the ocean 

From the Orient's uttermost light, 
To where the last ripple in motion 

Lips hem of the skirt of the night, — 
But The Beautiful City evades us — 

No spire of it glints in the sun — 
No glad- bannered battlement shades us 

When all our long journey is done. 



THE BEAUTIFUL CITY, 69 

Where lies it ? We question and listen ; 

We lean from the mountain, or mast, 
And see but dull earth, or the glisten 

Of seas inconceivably vast : 
The dust of the one blurs our vision — 

The glare of the other our brain. 
Nor city nor island elysian 

In all of the land or the main ! 

We kneel in dim fanes where the thunders 

Of organs tumultuous roll, 
And the longing heart listens and wonders, 

And the eyes look aloft from the soul, 
But the chanson grows fainter and fainter, 

Swoons wholly away and is dead ; 
And our eyes only reach where the painter 

Has dabbled a saint overhead. 

The Beautiful City ! O mortal, 

Fare hopefully on in thy quest. 
Pass down through the green grassy portal 

That leads to the valley of rest, 
There first passed the One who, in pity 

Of all thy great yearning, awaits 
To point out the Beautiful City, 

And loosen the trump at the gates 




EXAMPLE. 



J. KEBLE. 



We scatter seeds with careless hand, 

And dream we ne'er shall see them more: 
But foi a thousand years 
Their fruit appears, 
In weeds that mar the land 
Or healthful store. 

In deeds we do, the words we say, 
Into still air they seem to fleet; 
We count them ever past; 
But they shall last — 
In the dread judgment they 
And we shall meet. 

I charge thee by the years gone by, 
For the love of brethren dear, 
Keep, then, the one true way 
In work and play, 
Lest in the world their cry 
Of woe thou hear. 



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" No more shall the war-cry sever.' 



THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. 




F. M. FINCH. 

Y the flow of the inland river, 

Whence the fleets of iron have fled, 
Where the blades of the grave grass quiver 
Asleep are the ranks of the dead ; — 

Under the scd and the dew, 

Waiting the Judgment day : 
Under the one, the Blue; 
Under the other, the Gray. 



These in the robings of glory, 

Those in the gloom of defeat, 
All with the battle -blood gory. 
In the dusk of eternity meet ; — 

Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the Judgment day; 
Under the laurel, the Blue; 
Under the willow, the Gray. 



From the silence of sorrowful hours 

The desolate mourners go, 
Lovingly laden with flowers 

Alike for the friend and the foe ;■ — 
Under the sod and the dew, 
Waiting the Judgment day; 

73 



74 GEMS OF POETRY. 

Under the roses, the Blue, 
Under the lilies,the Gray 

So with an equal splendor 

The morning sun-rays fall, 
With a touch, impartially tender. 

On the blossoms blooming for all ; — 
Uncier the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the Judgment dayj — 
'Broidered with gold, the Blue; 
Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 

So, when the summer calleth, 

On forest and field of grain, 
With an equal murmur f alleth 
The cooling drip of the rain; — 

Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the Judgment day; — 
Wet with the rain, the Blue,* 
Wet with the rain, the Gray. 

Sadly, but not with upbraiding, 
The generous deed was done; 
In the storm of the years that are fading, 
No braver battle was won; — 

Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the Judgment day; — 
Under the blossoms, the Blue; 
Under the garlands, the Gray. 

No more shall the war-cry sever, 
Or the winding rivers be red; 

They banish our* anger forever 

When they laurel the graves of our dead I 



THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. OUR OWN. 75 

Under the sod and the dew, 
Waiting the Judgment day ; — 

Love and tears for the Blue; 
Tears and love for the Gray. 



OUR OWN. 



MRS. M. E. SANGSTER. 



If I had known in the morning, 
How wearily all the day 

The words unkind would trouble my mind, 
I said when you went away, 
I had been more careful, darling, 

Nor given you needless pain : 
But we vex our own with look and tone 

We might never take back again. 

For though in the quiet evening 
You may give me the kiss of peace. 

Yet it might be that never for me 
The pain of the heart should cease. 
How many go forjjh in the morning 

That never come home at night, 
And hearts have broken for harsh words spoken. 

That sorrow can ne'er set right. 

We have careful thoughts for the stranger. 
And for the sometime guest, 

But oft for our own the bitter tone. 
Though we love our own the best. 
Ah! lips with the curve impatient, 

Ah! brow with a look of scorn, 
'Twere a cruel fate, were the night too late, 

To undo t-bs work of morn. 



THE CUP BEARER. 



EMILIE CLARE. 

In olden time there lived a king 

For wit and wisdom much renowned — 

In feasting and in reveling 

He far surpassed all kings around. 

Now it so happened, on a time 

When the great lords of earth had met, 
To feast o'er meats, and fume o'er wine. 

It needed still one person yet, — 

One all important personage. 

To bear the cup with lordly grace; 

When lo, a youth of tender^feige 

Said modestly, "I'll take his place." 

Well pleased, the king smiles a conseijt, 
The youth the cup and napkin bore, 

And gracefully his footsteps bent 
To those who knightly honors wore. 

"Well done," was passed from lip to lip! 

"My son," his father said, "this thing 
Was nobly done, yet you to sip 

Forgot, before you gave your king." 



THE CUP BEARER. 

"Nay, I forgot no custom old, 
But coiled within the cup, I saw 

A poisonous serpent, fold on fold, 

And that was why I shunned the law." 

"A serpent, child! and poisonous? — why! — 
How can you speak so strange and wild ?" 

" I saw the poisonous serpent nigh. 
And shunned it," said the timid child. 

" Aye! shunned it, for I saw the power 
On those who drank but yesterday, 

In less by far, than one short hour 
Their wit and wisdom fled away. 

" Some tried to dance, and some to sing, 
And some to walk as vainly tried, 

\Vhile you, forgetful you were king, 
Mounted a broom-stick for a ride." 



77 




I'D MOURN THE HOPES." 



TOM MOORE. 



I'd mourn the hopes that leave me, 
. . If thy smiles had left me too; 
I'd weep when friends deceive me, 

Hadst thou been like them untrue. 
But while I've thee before me, 

With heart so warm, and eyes so bright, 
No clouds can linger o'er me. 

That smile turns them all to light. 

'Tis not in fate to harm me. 

While fate leaves thy love to me; 
'Tis not in joy to charm me. 

Unless joy be shar'd with thee. 
One minute's dream about thee 

Were worth a long and endless year 
Of waking bliss without thee. 

My own love, my only dear! 

And, though the hope be gone, love, 
That long sparkled o'er our way. 

Oh! we shall journey on, love, 
More safely, without its ray; 

78 



"i'd mourn the hopes." 79 

Far better light shall win me, 

Along the path I've yet to roam; 
The mind, that burns within me, 

And pure smiles from thee at home. 

Thus, when the lamp that lighted 

The traveler, at first goes out 
He feels awhile benighted 

And looks round in fear and doubt. 
But soon, the prospect clearing. 

By cloudless star-light on he treads, 
And thinks no lamp so cheering 

As that light which heaven sheds! 




THE OLD CHURCH BELL. 



W. H. SPAKKS. 



[The following note accompanied the copy of the poem found 
among Colonel Spark's papers, says the Atlanta Constitution: 
"After an absence of thirty" years, I visited my native village, 
Eatonton, Putnam county, Ga., and sojourned for a week in the 
hospitable home of my boyhood's friend, Edmund Eeid. On 
Sabbath morning, whilst alone in my bed-room, the old church 
bell commenced to ring. My heart was touched, and tears flooded 
my eyes. The tones were familiar as though I had heard them 
every Sunday during all that lapse of intervening time. With my 
pencil I wrote these lines in a small memorandum book which I 
carried in my pocket : "] 

Ring on, ring on, sweet Sabbath bell; 

Thy mellow tones I love to hear, 
I was a boy, when first they fell 

In melody upon mine ear; 
In those dear days, long past and gone, 

When sporting here in boyish glee. 
The magic of thy Sabbath tone 

Awoke emotions deep in me. 

Long years have gone and I have strayed 

Out o'er the world, far, far away. 
But thy dear tones have round me played 

On every lovely Sabbath day. 

80 



THE OLD CHU '.CH BELL. 81 

When strolling o'er the mighty plains, 
Spread widely in the unpeopled West, 

Each Sabbath morn I've xleard thy strains 
Tolling the welcome day of rest. 

Upon the rocky mountain crest, 

Where Christian feet have never trod, 
In the deep bosom of the West 

I've thought of thee and worshiped God; 
Ring on, sweet bell! I've come again 

To hear thy cherished call to prayer, 
There's less of pleasure, now, than pain 

In those dear tones which fill my ear. 

Ring on, ring on, dear bell, ring on! 

Once more I've come with whitened head 
To hear thee toll. The sounds are gone! 

And e'er this Sabbath day has sped, 
I shall be gone, and may no more 

Give ear to thee, sweet Sabbath bell! 
Dear church and bell, so loved of yore, 

And childhood's happy home, farewell! 

^Eutouton, Ga., May 18, 1856. 




SAD. 



A SHORT TALE IN SHORT WORDS. 



W. S. F. 




ID you hear that sound of woe, 

Ring out on the still night air? 
Did you see the mad fiend's blow 

Fall on her who knelt in prayer? 
'Did you hear the last sad moan, 

As that fair one's soul was fi-eed. 
And list in vain to hear a groan 

Or sigh from him who did the deed ? 



Ah, see that smile of joy and rest. 

Now as she draws her last short breath, 
That to her still white face is prest. 

E'en while she tastes the cup of death. 
I would not have you hear the curse 

That from this base man's lips there fell, 
Nor go to see the poor lone hearse 

And grave of her with whom all's well — 



But turn now to a scene more fair. 
And see those two so blithe and gay; 

82 



SAD. 83 

He twines a rose wreath in her hair, 
She smiles on him through all the day. 

He plights his love, wealth, dreams of bliss. 
And she pure love, fair hand, leal heart, 

Their vows are sealed with faith's sweet kiss, 
A high trust wrought by no rude art. 

They wed; and as the years sped on, 

A dark cloud came and o'er them hung; 
Their vows were hid, their love was gone. 

And in mute woe joy's knell was rung. 
The Fiend of Drink — the curse and foe 

Of man through all the flights of time — 
Stole in and laid the strong youth low; 

He drank, and this was all his crime. 

The deeds of wrong which he has done. 

All came from this his first great sin. 
And all his once grand traits had won 

Was lost in dark wild strife and din ; 
Eum is the cause of all the shame 

That holds him now with bands of steel, 
And when the stern Seer laid a claim 

Oh what sharp pain his wife did feel! 

But she is freed from all her woes 

While he must still go down and down 
Through all the shades of crime's keen throes! 

He sought a ban and she a crown. 
The years to come will tell the tale — 

Frail words cannot speak all the truth. 
When Death shall come on steed so pale. 

To take with him this sin- wild youth. 



84 GEMS OF POETRY. 

My brave young boys take heed I pray, 

And walk not in this black crime's path, 
Walk on that high and grand straight way. 

Which shuns the place of lire and wrath. 
Ye bright hopes of the yet to come. 

With truth now let your feet be shod. 
Strive for that blest and dear good home. 

In the grand realms of our God. 




DRIFTING. 



CALISTA L. GRANT. 



I stand by the river, so peacefully shining, 

Beyond is the city I'm yearning to see; 

I wait for the summons that's coming to me! 
Hold me closer, my darling, and feel no repining. 
We know that the pure love our hearts now entwininr, 

Reaching over the river, immortal will be! 

Thou fair, golden city, soon, soon, I shall find me 
Thy clear jasper walls and thy pearl gates within. 
Where never can enter earth's bondage and sin! 
All the world's care and pain I shall leave far behind me, 
No more can my prison chains trammel and bind me, 
My crown of rejoicing at last I shall win. 

For I'm dying, yon say, though it seems more like dreaming, 

So slowly the life-tide is ebbing away, — 

So slowly is fading life's lingering ray! 
So long all of earth hath been idle seeming, 
So long, oh, so long, have I watched for the gleaming 

Of the pure gates that open to Heaven's perfect day. 

Through the vine-curtained window the sunlight is sifting , 

85 



8f5 GEMS OF POETRY. 

On the snow of the mountains the purple mist lies; 

But they fade from my view, as the death -shadows rise, 
And out from the earth-life my lone bark is drifting, 
Through the mist and the shadow, but angels are lifting. 

With invisible fingers, the gates of the skies ! 



A FAREWELL 



Farewell ! since never more for thee 
The sun comes up our eastern skies. 

Less bright henceforth shall sunshine be 
To some fond hearts and saddened eyes. 

There are who for thy last, long sleep 
Shall sleep as sweetly nevermore, 

Shall weep because thou canst not weep, 
And grieve that all thy griefs are o'er. 

Sad thrift of love! the loving breast 
On which the aching head was thrown, 

Gave up the weary head to rest, 
But kept the aching for its own. 




FAITH. 



FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. 



Better trust all and be deceived, 
And weep that trust and that deceiving, 
Than doubt one heart that if believed 
Had blessed one's life with true believing. 

0, in this mocking world too fast 

The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth; 

Better be cheated to the last 

Than lose the blessed hope of truth. 




«7 




BED. 

Our sweetest and most bitter hours are thine; 

Thou by the weary frame art fondly pressed, 
Which, grateful, blesses its most welcome shrine. 

While curses thee, pale sickness' sad unrest. 
'Tis here the blushing bride receives her lord; 

'Tis here the mother first beholds her child; 
'Tis here death snaps affection's fondest cord. 

And changes sunny bliss to anguish wild; 
'Tis here the good man, pondering on his fate, 

Beholds that bed which this doth typefy, 
Made by the sexton, his frail form's estate, 

Where, in long slumber, it shall dreamless lie; 
And he exults, feeling in that dark sod 
His robe alone will lie — the rest with God! 




GILLYFLOAVEKS. 




LD-FASHIONED, yes, I know they are, 

Long exiled from the gay parterre, 

And banished fi'om the bowers; 

But not the fairest foreign bloom 

Can match in beauty or perfume 

Those bonny English flov/ers. 



Their velvet petals, fold on fold. 
In every shade of flaming gold, 
And richest, deepest brown, 
Lie close with little leaves between, 
Of slender shape and tender green, 
And soft as softest down. 



On Sabbath mornings long ago. 
When melody began to flow 

From out the belfry tower, 
I used to break from childish talk, 
To pluck beside the garden walk 

My mother's Sunday flower. 

In spring she loved the snow- drop wJiite, 
In summer time carnations bright. 

Or roses newly blown ; 
But this the bower she cherished mostj 
And from the goodly garden host 

89 



90 GEMS OF POETRY. 

She chose it for her own. 

Ah, mother dear! the brown flowers wave . 
In sunshine o'er thy quiet grave, 

This morning far away; 
And I sit lonely here the while, 
Scarce knowing if to sigh or smile 

Upon their sister spray. 

I well could sigh, for grief is strong, 
I well could smile, for love lives long. 

And conquers even death; 
But if I smile, or if I sigh, 
God knoweth well the reason why. 

And gives me broader faith. 

Firm faith to feel all good is meant. 
Sure hope to fill with deep content 

My most despairing hours ; 
And oftentimes he deigns to shed 
Sweet sunshine o'er the path I tread, 

As on to-day, these flowers. 

And chose he not a bearer meet, 

To brinoc for me those blossoms sweet, 

A loving little child? 
And child and bonny blossoms come. 
Like messages of love and home. 

O'er waters waste and wild. 

—All the Year Round. 




92 




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THE BROOK. 



A. TENNYSON. 



*'0 babbling brook," says Edmund in his rhyme, 

" Whence come you ?" and the brook, why not ? replit 




COME from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden sally 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down. 
Or slip between the ridges, 

By twenty thorps, a little town. 
And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
To* join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

I chatter aver stony ways. 
In little sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddying bays, 
I babble on the pebbles. 



94 GEMS OF POETRY. 

With many a 3urve my banks I fret, 
By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on forever. 

I wind about, and in and out, 
With here a blossom sailing. 

And here and there a lusty trout. 
And here and there a grayling. 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 
With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel, 

And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on forever. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 
I slide by hazel covers; 

I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance. 
Among my skimming swallows; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 



THE BROOK. 9^ 

I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses: 
I linger by my shingly bars; 

I loiter round my cresses; 

And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 



THEEE CHAKACTEKISTIC EPITAPHS. 



[A Friend who read the epitaph prepared for his own tomb by 
the late Professor Clifford, was prompted to compose two others, 
which, with tbat of the Professor, is given below.] 

ATHEIST. • 

I was not, and I was conceived; 
I lived, and did a little work; 
I am not, and I grieve not. 

PANTHEIST. 

A drop of spray cast from the Infinite, 
I hung an instant there, and threw my ray 
To make the rainbow. ' A microcosm I, 
Reflecting all. Then back I fell again: 
And though I perished not, I was no more. 

CHRISTIAN. 

God willed: I was. What He had planned I wrought, 
That done. He called, and now I dwell with him. 



MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE. 



J. W. RILEY. 




SOUL of mine, look out and see 
My bride, my bride that is to be! 
Beach out with mad, impatient hands 
And draw aside futurity 
As one might draw a veil aside, 
And so unveil her where she stands 
Madonna-like and glorified — 
The Queen of undiscovered lands 
Of love, to where she beckons me — 
My bride, my bride that is to be. 

The shadow of a willow tree 

That wavers on a garden wall 

In summer time may never fall 

In attitude as gracefully 

As my fair bride that is to be; 

Nor ever Autumn's leaves of brown 

As lightly flutter to the lawn 

As fall her fair}' feet upon 

The path of love she loiters down. 

O'er drops of dew she walks, and yet 

Not one may stain her sandal wet, 

9G 



MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE. 

And she miglit dance upon Ihe way, 
Nor crush a single drop to spray, 
So airy dike she seems to me — 
My bride, my bride that is to be. 

I know not if her eyes are light 
As summer skies, or dark as night — 
I only know that they are dim 
With mystery. In vain I peer 
To make their hidden meaning clear, 
"While o'er their surface, like a tear 
That ripples to the silken brim, 
A look of longing seems to swim, 
All warm and weary -like to me; 
And then, as suddenly, my sight 
Is Winded with a smile so bright. 
Through folded lids I stdl may see 
My bride, my bride that is to be. 

Her face is like a night of June 

Upon whose brow the crescent moon 

Hangs pendent in a diadem 

Of stars, with envy lighting them; 

And, like a wild cascade, her hair 

Floods neck and shoulder, arm and wrist. 

Till only through the gleaming mist 

I seem to see a siren there. 

With lips of love and melody, 

And open arms and heaving breast 

Wherein I fling my soul to rest, 

The while my heart cries hopelessly 

For my fair bride that is to be. 

Nay, foolish heart and blinded eyes, 
My bride has need of no disguise — 



07 



98 GEMS OF POETRY. 

But rather let her come to me 

In such a form as bent above 

My pillow when in infancy 

I knew not anything but love. 

Ohj let her come from out the lands 

Of Womanhood — not fairy isles — 

And let her come with woman's hands, 

And woman's eyes of tears and smiles; 

With woman's hopefu.lness and grace 

Of patience lighting up her face; 

And let her diadem be wrought 

Of kindly deed and prayerful thought. 

That ever over all digress 

May beam the light of cheerfulness : 

And let her feet be brave to fare 

The labyrinths of doubt and care, 

That following, my own may find 

The path to heaven God designed — 

Oh, let her come like this to me, 

My bride, my bride that is to be. 




<?^H'ri 



WHO HAS ROBBED THE OCEAN CAVE ? 



JOHN SHAW, 



Who has robbed the ocean cave, 

To tinge thy Hps with coral hue ? 
Who, from India's distant wave. 

For thee those pearly treasures drew ? 
Who, from yonder orient sky, 
Stole the morning of thine eye ? 

Thousand charms thy form to deck, 

From sea, and earth, and air are torn; 
Roses bloom upon thy cheek, 

On thy breath their fragrance borne: 
Guard thy bosom from the day, 
Lest thy snows should melt away. 

But one charm remains behind. 

Which mute earth could ne'er impart; 
Nor in ocean wilt thou find, 
Nor in the circling air, a heart: 

Fairest, wouldst thou perfect be, 
Take, oh take that heart from me. 




A PORTRAIT. 



Two eyes I see whose sunny bine 

Rivals tlie summer skies ; 
Two lips whose ripe and cherry hue 

With bright carnation vies; 
Two rippling waves of gold brown hair, 

An antique comb to keep them straight ; 
A sweet and simple face most fair — 

Pressed on my heart is this portrait. 




TWO PICTURES. 



MARIAN DOUGLASS. 



An old farm-house, with meadows wide, 
And sweet with clover on each side; 
A bright- eyed boy, who looks from out 
The door with woodbine wreathed about 
And wishes his one thought all day : 
" O if I could but fly away 

From this dull spot the world to see. 
How happy, happy, happy. 

How happy I should be! " 

Amid tne city's constant din, 
A man who round the world has been. 
Who, 'mid the tumult and the throng. 
Is thinking, thinking all day long, — 
" O could I only tread once more 
The field path to the farm house door, 

The old, green meadows could I see, 
How happy, happy, happy. 

How happy I should be! " 

101 



EXTEACTS FROM "BURNS. 



F. G. HALLECK. 



He kept his honesty and truth, 
His independent tongue and pen, 

And moved in manhood as in youth. 
Pride of his fellow-men. 

Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, 
A hate of tyrant and of knave, 

A love of right, a scorn of wrong, 
Of coward and of slave, 

A kind, true heart, a spirit high. 

That could not fear arid would not bow, 

Were written in his manly eye 
And on his manly brow. 

Praise to the bard! His words are driven, 
Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown, 

Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven, 
The birds of fame have flown. 

Praise to the man! A nation stood 
Beside his coffin with wet eyes, 

102 



EXTRACTS FROM "bURNS." THE NATIVITY. 103 

Her brave, her beautiful, her good, 
As when a loved one dies. 

And still, as on his funeral day. 

Men stand his cold earth-couch around, 

"With the mute homage that we pay 
To consecrated ground. 

And consecrated ground it is, 

The last, the hallowed home of one 

Who lives upon all memories. 
Though with the buried gone. 

Sucn graves as his are pilgrim-shrines. 
Shrines to no code or creed confined, — 

The Delphian vales, the Palestines, 
The Meccas of the mind. 



THE NATIVITY. 



J. MILTON. 



This is the month, and this the happy morn, 
"Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King, 

Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, 
Our great redemption from above did bring; 
For so the holy sages once did sing. 

That he our daily forfeit should release, 

And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. 

That glorious form, that light unsufferable, 



104 GEMS OF POETRY. 

And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, 
Wherewith he wont ct Heaven's high council-table 

To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, 

He laid aside, and here with us to be, 
Forsook the courts of everlasting day, 
And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. 

Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein 
Afford a present to the Infant- God';" 

Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain. 
To welcome him to this his new abode, 
Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod. 

Hath took no print of the approaching light. 

And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright? 

See, how from far, upon the eastern road. 
The star- led wizards haste with odors sweet; 

Oh, run, prevent them with thy humble ode, 
And lay it lowly at his blessed feet ; 
Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet. 

And join thy voice unto the angel-cholr. 

From out his secret altar touch' d with hallow' d fire. 





A FKEE SHOW. 



WYOMING KIT. 




SIT to-night as audience to my thoughts, 

AVhich to a panorama treat my vision 
Of days long past, some bright, some bearing 
blots, 
Some worthy praise ; some calling forth derision ! 
And as the ever-changing scenes go by- 
Eliciting applause or condemnation — 
I bid the canvas halt, as to my eye 

Appears h scene v^hich once caused aggravation! 

It shoves me in the bright sunset of youth, 

Just entering the dawn of manhood's morning. 
When womankind I ranked as pearls of truth, 

Forever every thought of falsehood scorning! 
One avalanche of beauty crossed my path. 

And of my heart susceptible made capture ! 
Ah! who can know the joy I felt, who hath 

Not likewise had a tussle with love's rapture! 

I wooed her as did woo the fabled gods — 

( At least as I then understood their wooing 
From what I'd gleaned from books) — but what's tjie odds? 

105 



106 GEMS OF POETRY. 

I wooed her, that's enough — and in my suing 
I promised her — wsll, never mind; 'twas more 

Than I could ever give from .shrunken bounty! 
Enough to stock the very finest store 

In this, or any other, high-toned county! 

My wages vanished hke a summer dream, 

In little odds or ends to suit her fancy; 
Gloves, handkerchiefs, confections, rides, ice-cream, 

And price of opera boxes' occupancy! 
My board bill swelled into enormous size ! 

My washerwoman threatened dire exposure! 
And creditors — confound 'em — swarmed like flies. 

And hinted at a possible disclosure! 

And yet, my darling's smiles at all times drove 

Away the morbid shade these scenes threw o'er me 
The very pangs of sulphurdom , by Jove ! 

Would lose their terror with her smiles before me. 
At last she named the happy, joyous day 

When I should claim her for my own, own treasure 
But just before the night she ran away 

With clerk of a hotel, a gent of leisure! 



Ten years have passed. I saw her yesterday 

Beneath a basketful of dirty linen! 
She takes in washing now! alack-a-day! 

And 'pon my soul I couldn't keep from grinnin' 
To see that form which once was lithe and fair, 

Now weighing some two hundred pounds, or over! 
And seven children, all with oreide hair, 

Now greet her with the sacred name of " muvver! " 



A FREE SHOW. " TILL DEATH US PART." 107 

Her husband tumbled from his lofty grade 

And " soaked " his diamond( ?) pin for just a dollar, 
With which he bought a bootblack's stock in trade 

And went in partnership with gent of color! 
His works now shine — from others' fancy boots! 

Alas! what ending to love's glorious summer! 
Bright dream of glory plucked out by the roots ! 

Who? me? — ah — um — well, I'm a genteel bummer. 



'' TILL DEATH US PAET. 



DEAN STANLEY. 



" Till death us part," 

So speaks the heart. 
When each to each repeats the words of doom; 

Thro' blessing, and thro' curse. 

For better and for worse, 
We will be one till the dread hour shall come. 

Life, with its myriad grasp. 

Our yearning souls shall clasp. 
By ceaseless love and still expectant wonder. 

In bon'ds that shall endure, 

Indissolubly sure. 
Till God in death shall part our paths asunder. 

Till Death us join, 
O voice yet more divine! 
That to the broken heart breathes hope sublime; 



108 GEMS OF POETRY. 

Thro' lonely hours 
And shattered powers 
AVe still are one, despite of change and time. 

Death, with his healing hand, 

Shall once more knit the band 
AVhich needs but that one link which none may sever; 

Till, thro' the Only Good, 

Heard, felt and understood, 
Our life in God shall make us one forever. 




110 



GEMS OF POKTRY. 







" A shadowy landscape dipp'd in gold.' 



SUNSET WITH CLOUDS. 




HE earth grows dark about me, 

But heaven shines clear above, 
As dayhght slowly melts away 

With the crimson light I love; 
'And clouds, like floating shadows 

Of every form and hue, 
Hover around his dying couch, 

And blush a bright adieu. 

Like fiery forms of angels, 

They throng around the sun — 
Courtiers that on their monarch wait. 

Until his course is run; 
From him they take their glory; 

His honor they uphold; 
And trail their flowing garments forth, 

Of purple, green and gold. 

O bliss to gaze upon them, 

From this commanding hil], 
And di'ink the spirit of the hour, 

While all around is still; 
While distant skies are opening 

And stretching far away, 
A shadowy landscape dipp'd in gold, 

Where happier spirits stray. 



112 GEMS OF POETRY. 

I feel myself immortal, 

As in your robe of light 
The glorious hills andvales of heaven 

Are dawning on the sight; 
I seem to hear the murmur 

Of some celestial stream, 
And catch the glimmer of its course 

Beneath the sacfred beam. 

And such, methinks, with rapture, 

Is my eternal home — 
More lovely than this passing glimpse 

To which my footsteps roam; 
There's something yet more glorious 

Succeeds this life of pain; 
And, strengthened with a mightier hope, 

I face the world again. 

— Temple. Bar. 




TO THE MOCKING BIKD. 



R. H. WILDE. 



Wing'd mimic of the woods! thou motley fool, 

Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe ? 
Thine ever -ready notes of ridicule 

Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe: * 

Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe, 
Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school; 

To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, 
Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule! 

For such thou art by day — but all night long 
Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain, 

As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song 
Like to the melancholy Jacques complain. 

Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong, 
And sighing for thy motley coat again. 




U3 



LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 



p. B. BHELLEY. 



The fountains mingle with the river, 

And the river with the ocean ; 
The winds of heaven mix forever, 

With a sweet emotion; 
Nothing- in the world is single; 

All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle: — 

Why not I with thine? 

See! the mountains kiss high heaven, 

And the waves clasp one another; 
No sister flower would be forgiven 

If it disdained its brother; 
And the sunlight clasps the earth, 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea — 
What are all these kissings worth, 

If thou kiss not m^ ? 



114 



THE SONG OF LIGHTNING. 



GEO. W. CUTTER. 




WAY, away, through the sightless air — 

Stretch forth your iron thread; 
For I would not dim my sandals fair 

With the dust ye tamely tread; 
Ay, rear it up on its million piers — 

Let it reach the world around, 
And the journey ye make in a hundred years 

I'll clear at a single bound! 



Though I cannot toil like the groaning slave 

Ye have' fetter' d with iron skill, 
To ferry you over the boundless wave, 

Or grind in the noisy mill; 
Let him sing his giant strength and speed: 

Why, a single shaft of mine 
Would give that monster a flight, indeed. 

To the depths of the ocean brine. 



No, no! I'm the spirit of light and love: 
To my unseen hand 'tis given 

To pencil the ambient clouds above, 
And polish the stars of heaven. 



115 



116 GEMS OF POETRY. 

I scatter the golden rays of fire 

On the horizon far below, 
And deck the skies where storms expire 

With my red and dazzling glow. 

The deepest recesses of earth are mine — 

I traverse its silent core; 
Around me the starry diamonds shine,' 

And the sparkling fields of ore; 
And oft I leap from my throne on high, 

To the depths of the ocean's caves, 
Where the fadeless forests of coral lie. 

Far under the world of waves. 

My being is like a lovely thought 

That dwells in a sinless breast; 
A tone of music that ne'er was caught — 

A word that was ne'er expressed. 
I burn in the bright and burnish'd halls. 

Where the fountains of sunlight play — 
Where the curtain of gold and opal falls 

O'er the scenes of the dying day. 

With a glance I cleave the sky in twain, 

I light it with a glare, 
When fall the boding drops of rain 

Through the darkly- car tain'd air; 
The rock- built towers, the turrets gray. 

The piles of a thousand years. 
Have not the strength of potters' clay 

Before my glittering spears. 

From the Alps' or the highest Andes' crag, 
From the peaks of eternal snow. 



SONG OF LIGHTNING. 117 

The dazzling folds of my fiery flag 

Gleam o'er the world below; 
The earthquake heralds my coming power, 

The avalanche bounds away, 
And howling storms at midnight hour 

Proclaim my kingly sway. 

Ye tremble when my legions come — 

When my quivering sword leaps out 
O'er the hills that echo my thunder-drum, 

And rend with my joyous shout: 
Ye quail on the land or upon the seas, 

Ye stand in your fear aghast, 
To see me burn the stalwart trees. 

Or shiver the stately mast. 

The hieroglyphs on the Persian wall. 

The letters of high command, 
Where the prophet read the tyrant's fall, 

Were traced with my burning hand; 
And oft in fire have I wrote since then, 

Wliat angry Heaven decreed — 
But the sealed eyes of sinful men 

Were all too blind to read. 

At last the hour of light is here. 

And kings no more shall blind, 
Nor the bigots crush with craven fear 

The forward march of mind; 
The words of Truth, and Freedom's rays 

Are from my pinions hurl'd, 
And soon the sun of better days 

Shall rise upon the world. 



lliJ GEMS OF POETRY. 

But away, away, through the sightless air, 

Stretch forth your iron thread; 
For I would not soil my sandals fair 

With the dust ye tamely tread. 
Ay, rear it upon its million piers — 

Let it circle the world around. 
And the journey ye make in a hundred years 

I'll clear at a single bound! 



f f r 




THE YOUTH WHO PLAYED BEFORE HE LOOKED. 



A youth went forth to serenade 
The lady whom he loved the best, 

And passed beneath the mansion's shade 
Where first his charmer used to rest. 

He warbled till the mornin[^ light 

Came dancing o'er the hilltops' rim-, ^ 

But no fair maiden blessed his sight, 
And all seemed dark and drear to him. 

With heart aglow and eyes ablaze 
He drew much nearer than before, 

When, to his horror and amaze. 
He saw " To Let " upon the door. 




THE TWO VILLAGES. 

ROSE TERRY COOKE. 



Over the river on the hill, 
Lieth a village white and still; 
All around it the forest trees 
Shiver and whisper in the breeze. 
Over it sailing shadows go, 
Of soaring hawk and screaming crow; 
And mountain grasses, low and sweet. 
Grow in the middle of every street. 

Over the river under the hill. 
Another village lieth still ; 
There I see in the cooling night, 
Twinkling stars of household light. 
Fires that gleam from the smithy door. 
Mists that curl on the river shore; 
And in the road no grasses grow, 
For the wheels that hasten to and fro. 

In that village on the hill, 

Never is sound of smithy or mill ; 

The houses are thatched with grass and flowers, 

Never a clock to tell the hours ; 

The marble doors are always shut; 

You may not enter at hall or hut. 

120 



THE TWO VILLAGES. 121 

All the village lies asleep, 
Never a grain to sow or reap; 
Never in dreams to moan or sigh — 
Silent — and idle — and low — they lie 

In the village under the hill. 
When the night is starry and still, 
Many a weary soul in prayer 
Looks to the other village there, 
And weeping and sighing, longs to go 
Up to that home from this below — 
Longs to sleep by the forest wild, 
Whither have vanished wife and child, 
And^heareth, praying, the answer fall — 
"PatiencelThat village shall hold ye all!" 




THE LOVER. 



C. PATMORE. 



He meets, by heavenly chance express, 

His destined wife; some hidden hand 
Unvails to him that loveliness 

Which others cannot understand. 
No songs of love, no summer dreams 

Did e'er his longing fancy fire 
With vision like to this; she seems 

In all thinejs better than desire. 
His merits in her presence grow, 

To match the promise in her eyes, 
And round her happy footsteps blow 

The authentic airs of Paradise. 
The least is well, yet nothing's light 

In all the lover does; for he 
Who pitches hope at such a height 

Will do all things with dignity. 
She is so perfect, true, and pure. 

Her virtue all virtue so endears. 
That often, when he thinks of her, 

Life's meanness fills his eyes with tears. 



GOD'S WAYS. 



God speaks to hearts of men in many ways: 
Some the red banner of the rising sun, 

Spread o'er the snow-clad hills, has taught his praise; 
Some the sweet silence when the day is done; 
Some, after loveless lives, at length have won 

His word in children's hearts and children's gaze. 

And some have found him where low rafters ring 
To greet the hand that helps, the heart that cheers; 

And some in prayer and some in perfecting 
Of watchful toil' through unrewarding years. 

And some not less are his, who vainly sotight 
His voice, and they with siienco have been taught — 
Who bare his chain that bade them to be bound, 
And, at the end, in finding not, have found. 

—The Spectator. 




123 



DEAD. 



ALMA LATTIN. 



Within the flower- Hned casket she was laid, 
Without a tear, without a moan; 

The very hfe blood of my heart seemed stayed- 
Earth's light to deepest darkness grown. 



I laid my darling down without a sigh. 
For grief for words was all too deep; 

My anguished heart could only send one cry: 
" O God, in heaven, my darling keep! 

"I cannot lose her; she's my only one; 

Oh, let me to her, Lord, I pray! " 
But oh! the golden light of setting sun 

Shone on her fair, but lifeless clay. 

I know my darling's shining form will wait 
Beyond this world, where grief's dark night 

Enshrouds my saddened life, — at heaven's gate 
I'll meet my child where all is light. 



PARTING. 



in the wood, love, when we parted. 
Birds were singing loud and clear; 

Silent stood we, broken hearted; 
Parting words are hard to hear; 

Great our love, and great our anguish. 

Doomed apart to coldly languish! 
JViust it be forever, love ? 

All without was gay around us; 

All within was cold and bleak! 
Grief and pain in silence bound us; 

Parting words are hard to speak! 
Singing birds, why mock our sorrow? 
Know ye that we part to-morrow? 

Trouble not our last farewell. 

Nature knows no pain or sadness; 

Bird and flow'r and bee rejoice! 
Yet I cannot bear their gladness, 

And I hate their cheerful voice! 
Oh, farewell, my love, forever! 
Widely now our pathways sever. 

Never shall we meet again. 



125 



A BEAUTIFUL LEGEND. 




OFTLYfell the touch of twihght on Judea's silent 
hills; 
Slowly crept the peace of moonlight o'er Judea's 
trembling rills. 

In the temple's court, conversing, seven elders 

sat, apart; 
Seven grand and hoary sages, wise of head and 

pure of heart. 



"What's best?''said Rabbi Judah, he of stern and steadfast 

gaze; 
"Answer, ye whose toils have burdened through the march 

of many days." 

" To have gained," said Rabbi Ezra, " decent wealth and 

goodly store. 
Without sin, by honest labor — nothing less and nothing 

more." 



" To have found," said Rabbi Joseph — meekness in his gentle 
eyes — 

"A foretaste of heaven's sweetness in home's blessed par- 
adise." 

126 



A BEAUTIFUL LEGEND. 127 

" To have wealth and power and glory, crowned and bright 

ened by the pride 
Of uprising childi-en's children," Rabbi Benjamin replied. 

" To have won the praise of nations, to have won the crown 

of fame," 
Eabbi Solomon responded, faithful to his kingly name. 

" To sit throned, the lord of millions, first and noblest in 

the land," 
Answered haughty Rabbi Asher, youngest of the reverend 

band. 

"All in vain," said Rabbi Jairus, " unless faith and hope 

have traced 
In the soul Mosaic presents, by sin's contact uneffaced." 

Then uprose wise Rabbi Judah, tallest, gravest oi ^hem alL 
" From the heights of fame and honor even valiant souls may 
fall. 

"Love may fail us; virtue's sapling grow a dry and thorny 

rod. 
If we bear not in our bosoms the unselfish love of God." 

In the outer court sat playing a sad-featured, fair-haired 

child; 
His young eyes seemed wells of sorrow — they were God-like 

when he smiled! 

One by one he dropped the lilies, softly plucked with child- 
ish hand; 
One by one he viewed the sages of that grave and hoary 
• band. 



128 GEMS OF POETRY. 

Step by step he neared them closer, till encircled by the 

seven, 
Then he said, in tones untrembling, with a smile that 

breathed of heaven, 

"Nay, nay, fathers; only he within ihe measure of whose 

breast 
Dwells the human love with God-love, can have found life's 

truest rest; 

" For where one is not the other must grow stagnant at its 
spring. 

Changing good deeds into phantoms — an unmeaning, soul- 
less thing. 

" Whoso holds this precept truly, owns a jewel brighter far 
Than the joys of home and children — than wealth, fame and 
glory are; 

" Fairer than old age thrice honored, far above tradition's- 

law, 
Pure as any radiant vision ever ancient prophets saw. 

"Only he within the measure — faith apportioned — of whose 

breast 
Throbs the brother-love with God-love, knows the depth of 

perfect rest." 

Wondering gazed they at each other, once broke silence and 

no more: 
"He has spoken words of wisdom no man ever spake 

before!" 



A BEAUTIFUL LEGEND. 129 

Calmly passing from their presence to the fountain's rippling 

song, 
Stooped he to uplift the lilies strewed the scattered sprays 

among. 

Faintly stole the shades of evening through the massive 

open door; 
Whitely lay the peace of moonlight on the temple's marble 

floor. 

Where the elders lingered, silent since he spake, the Unde- 
, tiled, 
Where the Wisdom of the ages sat amid the flowers — a child. 




FATHER, WHATE'EE OF EARTHLY BLISS." 



A. STEELE. 



Father, whate'er of earthly bhss 

Thy sovereign will denies, 
Accepted at thy throne of grace, 

Let this petition rise: 

Give me a calm and thankful heart, 

From every murmur fiee. 
The blessings of thy love impart, 

And help me live to thee. 

Let the sweet hope that thou art mine 

My life and death attend; 
Thy presence through my journey shine, 

And crown my journey's end. 




130 




** As a reed with the reeds of the river." 132 



A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. 



E. B. BROWNING. 




HAT was he doin[T, the great god Pan, 

Down in the re sds by the river ? 
Spreading rnin and scattering ban, 
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, 
And breaking the golden lilies afloat 
With the dragon-fly on the river? 



He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, 
From the deep, cool bed of the river, 

The limpid water tnrbidly ran , 

And the broken lilies a- dying lay, 

And the dragon-fly Jiad fled away, 
Ere he brought it out of the river. 

High on the shore sat the great god Pan, 

While turbidly flowed the river. 
And hacked and hewed as a great god can 
With his hard, bleak steel at the patient reed, 
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed 
To prove it fresh from the river. 

He cut it short, did the great god Pan, 
( How tall it stood in the river ! ) 

133 



134 ^ MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. 

Then drew the pith like the heart of a man> 
Steadily from the outside ring, 
Then notched the poor dry empty thing 
In holes, as he sate by the river. 

" This is the way," laughed the great god Pan, 

(Laughed while he sate by the river!) 
" The only way since gods began 
To make sweet music, they could succeed; '* 
Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, 
He blew in power by the river. 

Sweet, sweet, ^weet, O Pan, 

Piercing sweet by the river, 
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! 
The sun on the hill forgot to die, 
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly 

Came back to dream on the river. 

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, 
To laugh, as he sits by the river, 

Making a poet out of a man. 

The true gods sigh for the cost and the painr— 

For the reed that grows nevermore again 
As a reed with the reeds of the river. 




THE DYING GLADIATOR. 



LOKD BYRON. 



I see before me the Gladiator lie: 

He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony, 

And his droop' d head sinks gradually low — 

And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 

Like the first of a thunder shower; and now 
The arena swims around him — he is gone. 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who 
won. 

He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 

Were with his heart, and that was far away. 

He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize. 

But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 

There were his young barbarians all at play, 

There was their Dacian mother, — he, their sire, 

Butcher' d to make a Roman holiday- 
All this rush'd with his blood — shall he expire 
And unavenged?— Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire! 



135 



THE TEACHER'S DREAM. 



W. H. VENABLE. 



f^^^S 






1 


1 


[n-t^^g^jiij 





HE weary teacher sat alone 

While twilight gathered on; 
And not a sound was heard around, 
The boys and girls were gone. 

The weary teacher sat alone, 
Unnerved and pale was Iib; 
Bowed 'neath a yoke of care, he spoke 
In sad soliloquy: 

'* Another round, another round, 

Of labor thrown away — 
Another chain of toil and pain 

Dragged through a tedious day. 

" Of no avail is constant zeal, 

Love's sacrifice is loss. 
The hopes of morn, so golden, turn, 

Each evening, into dross. 

'* I squander on a barren field 
My strength,- my life, my all; 



THE teacher's DREAM. 137 

The seeds I sow will never grow, 
They perish where they fall." 

He sighed, and low upon his hands 

His aching brow he prest: 
And o'er his frame ere long there came 

A soothing sense of rest. 

And then he lifted up his face. 

But started back aghast — 
The room by strange and sudden change 

Assumed proportions vast. 

It seemed a Senate -hall, and one 

Addressed a listening throng; 
Each burning word all bosoms stirred. 

Applause rose loud and long. 

The 'wildered teacher thought he knew 

The speaker's voice and look, 
" And for his name," said he, " the same 

Is in my record book." 

The stately Senate-hall dissolved — 

A church rose in its place, 
Wherein there stood a man of God, 

Dispensing words of grace. 

And though he spoke in solemn tone. 

And though his hair was gray, 
The teacher's thought was strangely wrought — 

" I whipped that boy to-day." 

The church, a phantasm, vanished soon — 
What saw the teacher then ? 



138 GEMS OF POETRY. 

In classic gloom of alcoved room 
An author plied his pen. 

"My idlest lad! " the teacher said, 
Filled with a new surprise — 

" Shall I behold his name enrolled 
Among the great and wise? " 

The vision of a cottage home 
The teacher now descried; 

A mother's face illumed the place 
Her influence sanctified. 

"A miracle! a miracle! 

This matron, well I know, 
VVas but a wild and careless child, 

Not half an hour ago. 

" And when she to her children speaks 

Of duty's golden rule. 
Her lips repeat, in accents sweet, 

My words to her at school." 

The scene was changed again, and lo, 
The school -house rude and old, 

Upon the wall did darkness fall. 
The evening air was cold. 

"A dream! " the sleeper, waking, said, 
Then paced along the floor, 

And whistling slow and soft and low, 
He locked the school-house door. 



THE TEACHER'S DREAM. 



130 



And, walking home, his heart was full 
Of peace and trust and love and praise; 

And singing slow and soft and low, 
He murmured, "After many days." 




THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. 



TOM MOORE. 



There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, 
As that vale, in whose bosom the bright waters meet; 
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, 
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart 

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene 
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green; 
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, 
Oh ! no — it was something more exquisite still. 

'Twas that friends, the belov'd of my bosom, were near, 
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, 
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve. 
When we see them reflected from looks that we love. 

Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest 

In thy bosom of shade, 'with the friends I love best. 

Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should 

cease, 
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. 



140 



THE LOST CHOED. 



A. A. PROCTER. 



Seated one day at the organ, 
I was weaiy and ill at ease, 

And my fingers wandered idly 
Over the noisy keys. 

I do not know what I was playing, 
Or what I was dreaming then; 

But I struck one chord of music , 
Like the sound of a great Amen! 

It flooded the crimson twiliofht. 

Like the close of an angel's psalm. 

And it lay on my fevered spirit 
With a touch of infinite calm. 

It quieted pain and sorrow. 
Like love overcoming strife; 

It seemed the harmonious echo 
From our discordant life. 

It linked all perplexed meanings 
Into one perfect peace, 

141 



142 GEMS OF POETRY. 

And trembled away into silence 
As if it were loth to cease. 

I have sought, but I seek it vainly, 
That one lost chord divine, 

That came from the soul of the organ, 
And entered into mine. 

It may be that death's bright angel 
Will speak in that chord again; 

It may be that only in heaven 
I shall hear that grand Amen. 




EXTRACTS FROM "L' ALLEGRO.' 



J. MILTON. 



ASTE thee, nymph, and bring with thee 
Jest, and youthful Jollity, 
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, 
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles 
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. 
And love to live in dimple sleek; 
Sport that wrinkled Care derides, 

And Laughter holding both his sides. 

Come, and trip it, as you go. 

On the light fantastic toe; 

And in thy right hand lead with thee 

The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; 




To hear the lark begin his flight. 
And, singing, startle the dull night, 
From his watch-tower in the skies, 
Till the dappled dawn doth rise; 
Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 
And at my window bid good-morrow, 
Through the sweet-briar or the vine, 
Or the twisted eglantine: 

143 



144 GEMS OF POETRY. 

While the cock, with lively din, 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin. 
And to the stack, or the barn-door, 
Stoutly struts his dames before: 
* * * * * * 

Sometime walking, not unseen, 
By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green, 
Right against the eastern gate 
Where the great sun begins his state. 
Robed in flames, and amber light. 
The clouds in thousand liveries dight; 
While the ploughman, near at hand, 
Whistles o'er the furrow' d land. 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe. 
And the mower whets his scythe, 
And every shepherd tells his tale. 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 
Whilst the landscape round it measures ; 
Russet lawns, and fallows gray. 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray; 
Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The laboring clouds do often rest; 
Meadows trim, with daisies pied. 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide; 
Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosom'd high in tufted trees. 
Where, perhaps, some beauty lies, 
TJie cynosure of neighboring eyes. 

Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes 
From betwixt two aged oaks, 
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met. 
Are at their savory dinner set 



EXTRACTS FROM "l' ALLEGRO." 14? 

Of herbs, and other country messes, 
Which the neat-handed PhilHs dresses; 
And then in haste her bower she leaves, 
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; 
Or, if the earlier season lead. 
To the tann'd haycock in the mead. 

Sometimes, with secure delight, 
The upland hamlets will invite, 
When the merry bells ring round. 
And the jocund rebecks sound 
To many a youth and many a maid 
-Dancing in the checker'd shade; 
And young and old come forth to play 
On a sunshine holiday, 
Till the live -long daylight fail: 
* * * * * * * 

Tower' d cities please us then, 

And the busy hum of men, 

Where throngs of knights ^nd barons bold. 

In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold. 

With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 

Rain influence, and judge the prize 

Of wit or arms, while both contend 

To win her grace whom all commend. 

There let Hymen oft appear 

In saffron robe, with taper clear, 

And pomp, and feast, and revelry. 

With mask and antique pageantry ; 

Such sights as youthful poets dream 

On summer eves by haunted stream. 

Then to the well -trod stage anon. 

If Jonson's learned sock be on, 

Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, 

10 



146 GEMS OF POETRY. 

Warble his native wood -notes wild. 

And ever, against eating cares, 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs, 
Married to immortal verse. 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce, 
In notes, with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out. 
With wanton heed and giddy cunnings 
The melting voice through mazes running. 
Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony; 
That Orpheus' self may heave his head, 
From golden slumber on a bed 
Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear 
Such strains as would have won the ear 
Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
His half-regain'd Eurydice. 
These delights if thou canst give, 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 




148 



GEMS OF POETRY. 




BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 



BINGEN ON THE KHINE. 



MRS. C. E. S. NORTON. 




SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, 
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was 

dearth of woman's tears; 
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life- 
blood ebbed away, 
And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what' he 
might say. 
The dying soldier faltered, and he took that comrade's hand, 
And he said, " I never more shall see my own, my native 

land; 
Take a message,and a token, to some distant friends of mine. 
For I was born at Bingen,— fair Bingen on the Rhine. 

"Tell my brothers and companions, Avhen they meet and 

crowd around. 
To hear my mournful story, in the ^ileasant vineyard ground, 
That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was 

done. 
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun; 
And, mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars, 
The death- wound on. their gallant breasts, the last of many 

scars ; 



149 



150 GEMS OF POETRY. 

And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn de- 

cline^ — 
And one had come from Bingen^ — fair Bingen on the Ehine. 

" Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old 

• age; 
For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage. 
For my father was a soldier, and even as a child 
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce 

and wild; 
And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, 
I let them take whate'er tJiey would, but kept my father's 

sword; 
And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used 

to shine. 
On the cottage wall at Bingen^— calm Bingen on the Rhine. 

" Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping 

head, 
When troops come marching home again with glad and 

gallant tread, 
But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye. 
For her brother was a soldier too, and not afi-aid to die; 
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name 
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame, 
And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword 

and mine). 
For the honor of old Bmgen^ — dear Bingen on the Rhine. 

"There's another, — not a sister; in the happy days gone by 
You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in 

her eye ; 
Too innocent for coquetry^ — too fond for idle scorning— 



BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 151 

O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest 



mourning! 



Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere the morn be risen, 

My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison) 

I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight 

shine 
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen,-fairBingenon the Khine. 

" I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to 

hear, 
The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and 

clear; 
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, 
The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and 

still; 
And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with 

friendly talk, 
Down many a path beloved of yore, and well - remembered 

walk! 
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,- 
But we'll meet no more at Bingen,-loved Bingen on the 

Rhine." 

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his grasp was 

childish weak, — 
His eyes put on a dying look, he sighed, and ceased to speak; 
His comrade bent to lift him, but the sparks of life had fled, 
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead! 
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked 

down 
On the red sand of the battle-field with bloody corses strewn; 
Yes, calmly, on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed 

to shine, 
As it shone on distant Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine. 



SONNET ON HIS BLINDESS. 



J. MILTON. 



When I consider how my hght is spent 

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, 
And that one talent which is death to hide, 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest he, returning chide; 
" Doth God exact day-labor, Hght denied? " 
I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need 
Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best 

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his statp 
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed, 
And post o'er land and ocean without rest; 
They also serve who only stand and wait." 




152 







TWO LOVEBS. . 



GEOKGE ELIOT. 




WO lovers by a moss-grown spring: 

They leaned soft cheeks together there. 
Mingled the dark and sunny hair, 
And heard the wooing thrushes sing. 
O budding time! 
O love's blest prime! 



Two wedded from the portal stept: 
The bells made happy carollings, 
The air was soft as fanning wings, 
White petals on the pathway slept. 
O pure-eyed bride! 
O tender pride ! 

Two faces o'er a cradle bent: 

Two hands above the head were locked; 
These pressed each other while they rocked, 
Those watched a life that love had sent. 
O solemn hour! 
O hidden power! 

Two parents by the evening fire: 

The red lio-ht fell about their knees 

153 



154 GEMS OF POETRY. 

On heads that rose by slow degrees 
Like buds upon the lily spira 
O patient life! 
O tender strife! 

The two still sat together there, 

The red light shown about their knees; 
But all the heads by slow degrees 
Had gone and left that lonely pair. 
O voyage fast! 
O vanished past! 

The red light shone upon the floor 

And made the space between them wide • 
They drew their chairs up side by side, 
Their pale cheeks joined, and said, " Once more' 
O memories! 
O past that is! 




EXTKACTS FROM "CRITICISM. 



A. POPE. 




OME beauties jot no precepts can declare, 

For there's a happiness as well as care. 

Music resembles poetry: in each 

Are nameless graces which no methods teach, 

And which a master-hand alone can reach. 

If, where the rules not far enough extend, 

(Since rules were made but to promote their 

end) 

Some lucky license answer to the full 

The intent proposed, that license is a rule. 

Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take, 

May boldly deviate from the common track. 

Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend. 

And rise to faults true critics dare not mend; '' 

From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, 

A nd snatch a grace beyond the reach of art. 

Which, without passing through the judgment, gains 

The heart, and all its end at once attains. 

* * * * * * 

A little learning is a dangerous thing; 
Drink deep or taste not the Pierian spring: 



155 



156 GEMS OF POETRY. 

There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, 

And drinking largely sobers us again. 

Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts, 

In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, 

While from the bounded level of our mind, 

Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind; 

But more advanced, behold with strange surprise 

New distant scenes of endless science rise! 

So pleased at first the towering Alps we try, 

Mount o'er the vales and seem to tread the sky. 

The eternal snows appear already pass'd. 

And the first clouds and mountains seem the last: 

But, those attained, we tremble to survey 

The growing labors of the lengthen' d way, 

The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes, 

Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise! 

J^ 2i£. Jii it£. ila ^ 

^s* yt^ vff vjt Tfz vt^ 

Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see. 

Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. 

In every work, regard the writer's end, 

Since none can compass more than they intend; 

And if the means be just, the conduct true. 

Applause in spite of trivial faults is due. 

As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit. 

To avoid great errors, much the less commit; 

Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays, 

For not to know some trifles is a praise. 

Most critics, fond of some subservient art. 

Still make the whole depend upon a part; 

They talk of principles, but notions prize. 

And all to one loved folly sacrifice. 

* * * * * * 

True wit is nature to advantage dress' d; 



EXTRACTS FROM "CRITICISM." 157 

Wliat oft was thonght, but ne'er so well express' d; 
Something, whose truth, convinced at sight we find, 
That gives us back the image of our mind. 
As shades more sweetly recommen'd the light. 
So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit. 
* * * * * * 

In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold; 
Alike fantastic, if too new, or old: 
Be not the first by whom the new are tried. 
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. 

But most by numbers judge a poet's song, 
And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong: 
In the bright Muse, though thousand charms conspire. 
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire; 
Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear. 
Not mend their minds; as some to church repair. 
Not for the doctrine, but the music there. 
These equal syllables alone require. 
Though oft the ear the open vowels tire; 
While expletives their feeble aid do join ; 
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line: 
While they ring round the same unvaried chimes, 
With sure returns of still expected rhymes: 
Where'er you find " the cooHng western breeze," 
In the next hue, it "whispers through the trees:" 
If crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs creep," 
The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) "with sleep:" 
Then, at the last and only couplet fraught 
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, 
A needless Alexandrine ends the song, 
That like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. 
Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes and know 
What's roundly smooth, or la nguishingly slow; 



158 GEMS OF POETRY. 

And praise the easy vigor of a line, 

Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness join. 

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance. 

As those move easiest who have learn' d to dance. 

'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, 

The sound must seem an echo to the sense. 

Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, 

And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; 

But when loud surges lash the sounding shore. 

The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar: 

When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 

The line too labors, and the words move slow: 

Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain. 

Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main. 

Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise. 

And bid alternate passions fall and rise! 

While at each change the son of Libyan Jove 

Now burns with glory, and then melts with love; 

Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow. 

Now sighs steal out, and totirs begin to flow: 

Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found. 

And the world's victor stood subdued by sound. 

Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own, 

But catch the spreading notion of the town; 

They reason and conclude by precedent. 

And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent. 

Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then 

Nor praise nor blame the wiitings, but the men. 

Of all this servile herd, the worst is he 

That in proud dulness joins with quality. 

A constant critic at the great man's board, 

To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord. 



EXTRACTS FROM "cRITICISM;' 159 

What woful stuff this madrigal would be, 
In some starved hackney sonneteer, oi- me! 
But let a lord once own the happy lines. 
How the wit brightens ! how the style refines ! 
Before his sacred name flies every fault, 
And each exalted stanza teems with thought! 

* * * * * * 

To what base ends, and by what abject ways. 
Are mortals urged through sacred lust of praise! 
Ah ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast, 
Nor in the critic let the man be lost. 
Good-nature and good-sense must ever join; 
To err is human, to forgive — divine. 

* * * * ^ ^ . 

Be silent always, when you doubt your sense; 
And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence: 
Some positive, persisting fops we know, 
Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so; 
But you, with pleasure own your errors past, 
Ind make each day a critique on the last. 




MEMOEIES. 



BARRY CORNWALL. 




ING a low song ! 

A tender cradle measure soft and low, 

Not sad or long, 
But such as we remember long ago, 

When Time, now old, was flying 
Over the sunny seasons bright and fleet, 

And the red rose was lying 
Amongst a crowd of flowers all too sweet. 




160 



GOD KNOWETH. 



MES. MAEY G. BRAINARD, CHANGED BY P. P. BLISS. 



I know not what awaits me, 
God kindly veils mine eyes, 

And o'er each step of my onward way 
He makes new scenes to rise; 

And every joy he sends me, comes 
A sweet and glad surprise. 

Where he may lead I'll follow, 

My trust in Him repose ; 
And every hour in perfect peace 

I'll sing. He knows, He knows. 

One step I see before me, 

'Tis all I need to see. 
The light of heaven more brightly shines, 

When earth's illusions flee; 
And sweetly through the silence, came 

His loving "Follow Me." 

O blissful lack of wisdom, 
'Tis blessed not to know; 
He holds me with His own right hand,* 



162 



GEMS OF POETKY. 



And will not let me go, 
And lulls my troubled soul to rest 
In Him who loves me so. 

So on I go not knowing, 

I would not if I might; 
I'd rather walk in the dark with God 

Than go alone in the light; 
I'd rather walk by faith with Him 

Than go alone by sight. 




164 



GEMS OF POETRY. 




"Musical cherub, soar, singing away!" 



ODE TO THE LARK. 



J. HOGG. 



Bird of the wilderness, 
Blithesome and cumberless, 

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! 
Emblem of happiness, 
Blest is thy dwelling-place; 

O, to abide in the desert with thee ! 
Wild is thy lay, and loud, 
Far in the downy cloud; 

Love gives it e»ergy, love gave it birth, 
Where, on thy dewy wing, 
Where art thou journeying ? 

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. 

O'er fell and fountain sheen, 
O'er moor and mountain green. 

O'er the red streamer that Jieralds the day, 
Over the cloudlet dim, 
Over the rainbow's rim. 

Musical cherub, soar, singing away! 

Then, when the gloaming comes. 
Low in the heather blooms, 



IQ(\ • GEMS OF POETRY. 

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! 
Emblem of happiness, 
Blest is thy dwelling place, 
O, to abide in the desert with thee! 




PATRIOTISM. 



SIR W. SCOTT. 



Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said. 

This is my own, my native land! 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, 
As home his footsteps he hath turned. 

From wandering on a foreign strand! 
If such there breathe, go, mark him wellj 
For him no minstrel raptures swell; 
High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim , 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
The wretch, concentred all in self, 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown. 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
Tq the vile dust, from whence he sprung. 
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 




167 



SONG ON MAY MORNING. 



J. MILTON. 



Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, 
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her 
The flowery May, who, from her green lap, throws 
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. 
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire 
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire; 
Woods and groves are of thy dressing, 
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
Thus we salute thee with our early song, 
And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 




MY ANGEL 



EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER. 




LOWLY the night is falling, 
Falling down from the hill, 
And all in the low green valley 
The dew lies heavy and chill; 
^^ The crickets cry in the hedges, 
And the bats are circling low, 
And like ghosts through the blossoming garden 
The glimmering night-moths go. 

Hand in hand through the twilight 

Come the children every one. 
Flushed with their eager fr'olic, 

Tawny with wind and sun; 
Home from the sunny uplands 

Where the sweet wild berries grow, 
Home from the tangled thickets 

WTiere the nuts are ripening slow. 

They mock at the owl's weird laughter 

And the cricket's lonesome cry, 
At the tardy swallows flying 



IC9 



170 GEMS OF IVKTKY. 

Late tliivugh iho darkening sky; 
And silently gliding after, 

Throiiiili the dusk of the shado\\7 street. 
Comes their little angel sister, 

Star Nvhite from her head to her feet — 

Never en^ssing the threshold. 

Come they early or latt>; 
AVitli her empty hands on her bosom. 

She stops at the cottage gate. 
I stretch out my arms in longing. 

But she fades from my aching sight. 
As a little \Yhite cloud at morning 

Yanislies into the light. 

And spite of the shining garments 

Folded about her now. 
And spite of the deatliless beauty 

Cro^^^ling her lip and brow, 
I wish for one passionate moment 

She sat on my knee again; 
On her feet, so spotless and teniler. 

The dust and the earthly stain. 

For missing her morning and evening, 

The bitterest thought nuist be 
That safe with her blessed kindred 

The child hath no need of me; 
And counting her heavenly birthdays, 

I say in my jealous care: 
*' The babe that lay on my bosom 

Hath grown to a maiden fair; 

"And now if out of the glory 



MY ANOEL. 

Har faco Yika a star nliould nhine, 
Could I ^UfjHH tho beautiful ohaugfilinrr 

Had ovf;r on oarth bf^^Ti lauKt'l 
I Hhoiild voil my ^;yoH at hor Hi)lendor, 

But n(ivr;r forr^fit my lack 
Ffjr the. clirjrrirj;^ hands of my bah>y, 

And tlj^i inoutli tliat kissed mo back" 

Yot though in my human Vjlindness 

I cannot fathom His way 
Who counts His glorious cycles 
. A thousand years as a day — 
Wlionever the cloud is lifted, 

AVhenevfir I cross the tide, 
Mine own He will surely give me 

And I shall be satisfied. 



171 




A WOMAN'S LOVE DREAM. 



NETTIE P. HOUSTON. 




E all have waking visions — I have mine, 
And being young, and fanciful, and counted f ai 
I sometimes dream of love. 
And sitting all alone, and musing still. 
While yet the firelight flickers dim, 
I ask myself if I should learn to love, 
If my still heart could wake to life, 

How would I love, and how would I be loved; — 

I would be loved in calmness — 

Trusted and not feared. 

I do not ask that he be proud and cold. 

But calm, and grave, and very strong — 

A King, liLd Saul, among the sons of men, 

And kinglier o'er himself. 

He must not tremble at my slightest fi'own 

Nor shudder if another meets my eye; 

I would not rule, nor yet would I be ruled; 

I scorn the tyrant as I scorn his slave. 

There is a love of sweet equality, 

The love God gave and smiled upon, — 

For it was very good. 

He whom I love must be my king. 



172 



A woman's love dreajvi. 173 

But I must be his queen ; 

And he should yield me, as my tribute due, 

The reverence I had earned, 

Not only by my womanhood, but by all gentleness. 

Long-suffering, the patient sweetness. 

Only love can teach ; 

For looking on me he should feel and know 

That peace and rest which follow after toil. 

I do not ask for him the world's applause. 

His deeds the annals of a nation's pride. 

His name upon the lips of men; 

But I must feel his power — 

Must know he could be what earth's heroes are — 

I could not love him were he not thus great. 

His hand must be both safe and strong; 

As hand to shield, to trust, to lay my own within. 

To stake my life upon; 

A hand that might have fought with Hercules, 

Yet would not harm the worm in his path, 

For tho' the heart of woman loveth oft 

A thing she doth unwillingly despise, 

It is a pitiful, imperfect love that hath not 

For its corner-stone the rock of Faith. 

His heart must be most tender and most true — 

A heart that loves, and pities, and befriends 

Earth's suffering children, whether high, 

Or yet among the lowly and the poor, 

And he must love me perfectly. 

If I should ever meet this man. 

While he bent down to kiss my shining hair, 

Or smooth its clusters from their clinging rest, 

A sweet unspoken language in his touch 

Would lift my bright eyes to the light of his; 



174 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



And, as in fair Judea, when the world was young, 
Sarah with reverence said to Abraham, 
My hps should call him " Lord! " 




176 



GEMS OF POETRY. 




MINNEHAHA FALLS. 

"And the cataract leaps in glory.' 



BUGLE SONa 



A. TENNYSON. 



The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story: 
The long liglit shakes across the lakes 

And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 

O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 

Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river : 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 

And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle,, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 



12 177 



BEAUTY: A SONNET. 



W. SHAKSPERE. 



O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, 

By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! 
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 

For that sweet odor which doth in it hve. 
The canker-blooms have fall as deep a dye. 

As the perfumed tincture of the roses, 
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly 

When summer's breath their masked buds discloses: 
But for their virtue only is their show, 

They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade; 
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so ; 

Of their sweet breaths are sweetest odors made. 
And BO of you, beauteous and lovely youth, 
When that shall fade, my verse distils your truth. 




178 



THEY WENT A-FISHING. 



One morning, when Spring was in her teens — 

A morn to a poet's wishing 
All tinted in delicate pinks and greens — 

Miss Bessie and I went fishing ; 

I in my rough and easy clothes, 

With my face at the sunshine's mercy; 

She with her hat tipped down to her nose 
And her nose tipped — vice versa. 

I with my rod, and reel and hooks, 
And a hamper for lunching recesses ; 

She with the bait of her comely looks, 
And the seine of her golden tresses. 

So we sat down on the sunny dike, 
Where the white pond lilies teeter, 

And I went to fishing, like quaint old Ike, 
And she like Simon Peter. 

A 11 the noon I lay in the light of her eyes. 
And dreamily watched and waited; 

But the fish were cunning and would not rise, 
And the baiter alone was baited. 

And, when the time for departure came, 

179 



180 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



The bag was flat as a flounder; 
But Bessie had neatly hooked her game — - 
A hundred- and- eighty pounder. 




SABBATH MOENING THOUGHTS. 



E. P. BROTHWELL. 



Afar in the gleaming orient, the amber gates swing wide, 
And from his lair the day-king stalks thro' in peerless pride 
The darkness flyeth affrighted, the flowers look up thro' 

tears, 
As a lost child greets its mother, forgetting all its fears. 

Up, up till the walls of the city are burning like molten gold. 
And hall, and cottage, and churcli- spire gleam bright in 

the shining fold; 
But the city is husht and silent, her thousand tongues are 

dumb, 
Like the tents of a sleeping army,, that wait the rolling 

drum. 



The clock high up in the church- tower tells " Seven " in 

ringing peals; 
Yet no tramping upon the pavement, no crash of rolling 

wheels ; 
No answering chime from work-shops — labor hath rest to- 
day- 
No patter of little footsteps, no childish shouts in play. 

181 



182 GEMS OF POETRY. 

Life weareth no outward tokens, until on the morning air 
The Sabbath bells' silvery chiming, telleth the hour of 

prayer, 
Throbbing thro all the city, and the worshipers come and 

go, 
Like the wave of the restless ocean continues to and fro. 

We sit in the softened sunlight that falls thro' the tinted 

panes. 
With pulsing heart uplifted by the organ's lofty strains; 
We echo the old petition that reverently is said, 
The old all-time petition asking for daily bread; 

For strength to resist temptation, from evil to be set free, 
Giving the glory and honor and power, O God, to thee; 
But oh, with our human passions, how scarcely dare we 

pray, 
"As we forgive, O Father, forgive us our sins this day. 

"As we forgive, O Father! " were this the heartfelt cry 
Surging from every altar, up to thy throne on high. 
How we, thy erring children, should reach a tender hand 
To every sin-wreck'd struggler upon life's crowded strand i 





" Mother, come back from the echoless shore," 184 



KOCK ME TO SLEEP, MOTHEE. 



MRS. ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN. 




ACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in yoni 

flight, 
Make me a child again just for to-night! 
Mother, come back from the echoless shore, 
Take me again to your heart as of yore; 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair,- 
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep; — 
Rock me to sleep, motheiy-rock me to sleep! 

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years ! 
I am so weary of toil and of tears, — 
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, — 
Take them, and give me my childhood again ! 
I have grown weary of dust and decay, — 
Weary of flinging my soul- wealth away; 
Weary of sowing for others to reap; — 
Rock me to sleep, mothei^-rock me to sleepj 



Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, 
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you! 



186 GtEMS OF POETRY'. 

Many a summer the grass has grown green, 
Blossomed, and faded our faces between. 
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain 
Long I to-night for your presence again. 
Comes from the silence so long and so deep; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! 

Over my heart, in the days that are flown, 
No love like mother-love ever has shone; 
No other worship abides and endures, — 
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours: 
None like a mother can charm away pain 
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. 
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! 

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, 
Fall on your shoulders again as of old; 
Let it drop over my forehead to-night, 
Snading my faint eyes away from the light: 
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more 
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; 
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! 

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long 
Since I last listened your lullaby song: 
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
Womanhood's years have been only a dream. 
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, 
Wijih your light lashes just sweeping my face, 
Never hereafter to wake or to weep; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! 




ODE TO THE BEAVE. 



W. COLLINS. 



How sleep the brave who sink to rest, 
By all their country's wishes blest! 
When Spring with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallow' d mold, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung, 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung; 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay, 
And Freedom shall awhile repair, 
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there! 




187 







WHEN TO THE SESSIONS.' 



SHAKSPERE. 



When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 

I summon up remembrance of things past, 
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, 

And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: 
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow. 

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night. 
And weep afresh love's long-since-cancelled w^oe, 

And moan tbe expense of many a vanished sight. 
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone. 

And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
The sad account of fore -bemoaned moan, 

Which I new pay as if not paid before. 
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend. 
All losses are restored, and sorrows end. 




188 



fp^ 




THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 



o'hara. 




HE muffled drum's sad roll has beat 

The soldier's last tattoo; 
No more on life's parade shall meet 

That brave and fallen few. 
On Fame's eternal camping ground 

Their silent tents are spread, 
And glory guards, with solemn round, 

The bivouac of the dead. 

No rumor of the foe's advance 

Now swells upon the wind; 
No troubled thought at midnight haunts 

Of loved ones left behind; 
No vision of the morrow's strife 

The warrior's dream alarms, 
No In-aying horn or screaming fife 

At the dawn shall call to arms. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust, 
Their plumed heads are bowed, 

Their haughty banner trailed in dust. 
Is now their martial shroud — 

189 



190 GEMS OF POETRY. 

And plenteous funeral tears have washed 
The red stains from each brow, 

And the proud forms, by battle gashed, 
Are free from anguish now. 

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, * 

The bugle's stirring blast. 
The charge, the fearful cannonade. 

The din and shout are past — 
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, 

Shall thrill with fierce delight 
Those breasts that never more may feel 

The rapture of the fight. 

Like the fierce northern hurricane 

That sweeps its great plateau. 
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain. 

Came down the serried foe — 
Who heard the thunder of the fray 

Break o'er the field beneath, 
Knew well the watchword of that day 

Was victory or death. 

Full many a mother's breath has swept 

O'er Angostura's plain. 
And long the pitying sky has wept 

Above its moldered slain. 
The raven's scream or eagle's flight. 

Or shepherd's pensive lay, 
Alone now wake each solemn height 

That frowned o'er that dread fray. 

Sons of the dark and bloody ground; 
Ye must not slumber there, 



THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 

Wherie stranger steps and tongues resound 

Along the heedless air ; 
Your own proud land's heroic soil 

Shall be your fitter grave; 
She claims from war her richest spoil — 

The ashes of her brave. 

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 

Far from the gory field, 
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 

On many a bloody shield. 
The sunshine of their native sky 

Smiles sadly on them here, 
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 

The heroes' sepulchre. 

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! 

Dear as the blood ye gave, 
No impious footstep here shall tread 

The herbage of your grave. 
Nor shall your glory be forgot 

While Fame her record keeps. 
Or Honor points the hallowed spot 

Where Valor proudly sleeps. 

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 

In deathless song shall tell. 
When many a vanished year hath flown 

The story how ye fell; 
Nor wreck, nor change, nor Winter's blight 

Nor Time's remorseless doom, 
Can dim one ray of holy light 

That gilds your glorious tomb. 



391 



THE TEUE POET. 




HE world is full of glorious likenesses. 
The poet's power is to sort these out, 
And to make music with the common strings 
With which the world is strung; to make the 

dumb 
Earth utter heavenly harmony, and draw 
Life clear and sweet and harmless as spring 

water 
Welling its way thro' flowers. 



The poet's pen is the true divining rod 

Which trembles toward the inner founts of feeling; 

]3ringing to light and use else hid from all, 

The many sweet, clear sources which we have 

Of good and beauty in our own deep bosoms, 

And mocks the variations of all mind 

As does the needle an air-investing storm's. 
* * * * 

Experience and imagination are 
Mother and sire of song — the harp and hand. 
The bard's aim is to give us thoughts, his art 
Lieth in giving them as bright as may be. 

192 



THE TRUE POET. 193 

And even when their looks are earthly, still 

If opened, like geodes, they may be found 

Full of sparkling, sparry loveliness. 

They should be wrought, not cast; like tempered steel, 

Burned and cooled, burned again, and cooled again. 

A thought is like a ray of light — complex 

In nature — simple only in effect. 

Words are the motes of thought, and nothing more; 

Words are like sea-shells on the shore; they show 

Where the mind ends, and not how far it has been. 

Let every thought, too, soldier-like, be stripped 

And roughly looked over. 

* * * * 

A mist of words. 
Like halos round the moon, though they enlarge 
The seeming size of thoughts, make the light less 
Doubly. It is the thought writ down we want, 
Not its effect — not likenesses of likenesses. 
And such descriptions are not, more than gloves 

Instead of hands to shake, enough for us. 

* * * * 

Great bards toil much and most, but most at first 
Ere they can learn to concentrate the soul 

For hours upon a thought to carry it. 

* * * * 

Some never rise above a petty fault. 
And of whose best things it is kindly said. 
The thought is fair; but to be perfect wants 
A little hightening, like a pretty face 
With a low forehead. 

* 'jv ^? * 

Some steal a thought 
And clip it round the edge, and challenge him 

13 



194 GEMS OF POETRY. 

Whose 'twas to swear to it. 

* * * * 

What of style? 
There is no style is good, but nature's style. 
And the great ancient's writings beside ours 
Look like illuminated manuscripts 
Before plain press print; all had different minds, 
And followed only their own bents ; for this 
Nor copied that, nor that the other; each 
Is finished in his writing; each is best 
For his own mind and that it was upon; 
And all have lived, are living, and shall live; 
But these have died, are dying, and shall die; 
Yea, copyists shall die, spark out and out. 
Minds which combine and make alone can tell 
The bearings and workings of all things 
In and upon each other. 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

And he who means to be a great bard, must 
Measure himself against pure mind and fling 
His soul into a stream of thought, as will 
A swimmer hurl himself into the water. 

* * * * 

Write to the mind and heart, and let the ear 

Glean after what it can. The voice of great 

Or graceful thoughts is sweeter far than all 

Word music; and great thoughts, like great deeds, need 

No trumpet. Never be in haste wi'iting. 

Let that thou utterest be of nature's flow, 

Not art's — a fountain's, not a pump's. But once 

Begun, work thou all things into thy work; 

And set thyself about it, as the sea 



THE TRUE POET. FRIENDSHIP. 195 

About earth, lashing at it day and night; 
And leave the stamp of thine own soul in it 
As thorough as the fossil flower in clay. 



FKIENDSHIP. 



SHAKSPERE. 



I count myself in nothing else so happy, 
As in a soul remembering my good fi'iends; 
And, as my fortune ripens with my love, 
It shall be still thy true love's recompense. 





^£a^ 



THE FINEST ENGLISH EPIGRAM. 



DK. DODDRIDGE, 



" Live while you live," the epicure would say, 
And seize the pleasures of the present day. 
" Live while you live," the sacred preacher cries. 
And give to God each moment as it flies. 
Lord, in my view, let both united be; 
I live in pleasure while I live to thee. 




196 



OUR INFANT IN HEAVEN. 




ILENCE filled the courts of heaven, 

Hushed were angel harp and tone, 
As c. httle new-born spirit 

Knelt before the eternal throne ; 
While her small white hands were lifted, 

Clasped as if in earnest prayer. 
And her voice in low, sweet murmurs. 
Rose like music on the air. 
Light from the full fount of glory 

On her robes of whiteness glistened. 
And the bright winged seraphs round her 
Bowed their radiant heads and listened: 



Lord! from thy throne of glory here 

My heart turns fondly to another; 
O, Lord, our God, the comforter, 

Comfort, comfort my sweet mother! 
Many sorrows hast thou sent her, 

Meekly has she drained the cup, 
And the jewels thou hast lent her, 

Unrepining, yielded up — 
Comfort, comfort my sweet mother. 

Earth is frowning darkly round her. 
Many, many hast thou taken; 



197 



198 GEMS OF POETRY. 

Let her not, though clouds surround her, 

Feel herself of thee forsaken. 
Let her think, when faint and weary, 

We are waiting for her here; 
Let each loss that makes earth dreary, 

Make the thought of heaven more dear- 
Comfort, comfort my sweet mother. 

Savior! thou in nature human. 

Dwelt on earth a little child. 
Pillowed on the breast of woman. 

Blessed Mary! undefiled. 
Thou, who from the cross of suffering, 

Marked thy mother's tearful face. 
And bequeathed her to thy loved one. 

Bidding him to fill thy place — 
Comfort, comfort my sweet mother. 

Thou, who from the heaven descending, 

Tears, and woes, and suffering won; 
Thou, who Nature's laws suspending. 

Gave the widow back her son; 
Thou, who at the grave of Lazarus, 

Wept with those who wept their dead; 
Thou, who once in mortal anguish. 

Bowed thy own anointed head — 
Comfort, comfort my sweet mother! 

The dove-like murmurs died away 

Upon the radiant air. 
But still the little suppliant knelt, 

With hands still clasped in prayer; 
Still were her softly-pleading eyes 

Turned to the sapphire throne, 



OUR INFANT IN HEAVEN. WOMAN. 

Till golden harp and angel voice 

Rang out in mighty tone; 
And as the silvery numbers swelled, 

By seraph voices given, 
High, clear, and sweet the anthem rolled 

Through all the court of heaven. 



199 



WOMAN. 



E. S. BARRET. 



Not she with traitorous kiss her Savior stung. 
Not she denied him with unholy tongue; 
She, while apostles shrank, could dangers brave, 
Last at the cross and earliest at the grave. 




THE CHILD OF A KING. 



HATTIE E. BUELL. 



My father is rich in houses and lands, 
He holdeth the wealth of the world in his hands ! 
Of rubies and diamonds, of silver and gold: 
His coffers are full, he has riches untold. 

My Father's own Son, the Savior of men, 
Once wandered o'er earth as the poorest of men. 
But now He is reigning forever on high, 
And will give me a home in heaven by and by. 

I once was an outcast stranger on earth, 

A. sinner by choice, an "alien" by birth! 

But I've been "adopted," my name's written down: 

An heir to a mansion, a robe, and a crown. 

A tent or a cottage, why should I care ? 
They're building a palace for me over there! 
Tho' exiled from home yet, still I may sing, 
All glory to God, I'm the child of a King. 

I'm the child of a King, 

The child of a King; 
With Jesus, my Savior, 

I'm the child of a King. 

200 



!02 




jrrairie fcjongsters. 




h£j^ 



"THE PKECIOUS GIFT OF SONG." 



MARY LOUISA CHITWOOD. 



If in one poor bleeding bosom 

I a woe- swept chord have stilled ; 
If a dark and restless spirit 

I with hope of heaven have filled; 
If I've made, for life's hard battle, 

One faint heart grow brave and strong- 
Then, my God, I thank thee, bless thee, 

For the precious gift of song. 




WHICH SHALL IT BE? 



ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN. 




HIGH shall it be? which shall it be?" 
I looked at John — John looked at me, 
Dear patient John, who loves me yet 
As well as though my locks were jet, 
And when I found that I must speak, 
My voice seemed strangely low and weak, 
"Tell me again what Robert said," 
And then I listened, bent my head. 
'* This is his letter." 



" I will give 
A house and land while you shall live, 
If in return from out your seven. 
One child to me for aye is given." 
I looked at John's old garments worn, 
I thought of all that John had borne 
Of poverty and work and care. 
Which I, though willing could not share; 
Of seven hungry mouths to feed. 
Of seven little children's need, 
And then of this. 



204 



WHICH SHALL IT BE? 205 

"Come John," said I, 
"We'll choose among them as they lie asleep," 
So walking hand in hand, 
Dear John and I surveyed our band. 
First to the cradle lightly stepped, 
Where Lilian, the baby slept; 
Her damp curls lay, like gold alight, 
A glory 'gainst the pillow white; 
Softly her father stooped to lay 
His rough hand down in a loving way, 
When dream or whisper made her stir. 
And huskily he said, "not her." 

We stepped beside the trundle bed, 
And one long ray of lamp -light shed 
Athwart the boyish faces there. 
In sleep so pitiful and so fair, 
I saw on Charlie's rough red cheek 
A tear undried, ere John could speak; 
" He's but a baby, too," said I, 
And kissed him as we hurried by. 

Pale, patient Kobby's angel face 
Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace; 
" Nay, for a thousand crowns not him," 
He whispered while our eyes were dim. 
Poor Dick! sad Dick! our wayward son, 
Turbulent, reckless, idle one — 
Could he be spared. Nay, he who gave 
Bids us befriend him to the grave ; 
Only a mother's heart can be 
Patient enough for such as he; 

And so said John, " I would not dare 



206 GEMS OF POETRY. 

To send him from our bedside prayer.'' 

Then stole we lightly up above, 

And knelt by Mary, child of love; 

" Perhaps for her it would better be," 

I said to John, quite silently. 

He lifted up a curl that lay 

Across her cheek in willful way, 

And shook his head, "Nay, love, not thee;" 

The while my heart beat audibly. 

Only one more, our oldest lad. 
Trusty and truthful, good and glad. 
So like his father, "No, John, no: 
I can not, will not, let him go." 
And we wrote in courteous way, 
We would not give one child away; 
And afterward toil brighter seemed, 
Thinking of that of which we dreamed, 
Happy, in truth, that not one face, 
We missed from its accustomed place; 
Thankful to work for all of the seven, 
Trusting then to One in heaven. 




AT CHESS. 



SALLIE A. BROCK. 




BOVE a checkered table they bent — 

A man in his prime and a maiden fair, 
Over whose polished and blue-veined brow 

Rested no shadowy tinge of care. 
Her eyes were fountains of sapphire light; 

Her lips wore the curves of cheerful thought ; 
And into her gestures and into her smile 

Grace and beauty their spell had fraught. 

Above the checkered table they bent, 

Watching the pieces, red and white, 
As each moved on m appointed course 

Through the mimic battle's steady fight — 
The queen, in her stately, regal power; 

The king, to her person friendly shield; 
The mitred bishop, with his support, 

And the massive castle across the field; 

The pawn, in his slow and cautious pace, 
A step at a time ; and the mounted knight, 

Vaulting, as gallant horseman of old. 
To the right and left, and left and right. 

But a single word the silence broke, 

207 



208 GEMS OF POETRY. 

As they cleared aside the ruin and wreck 
Of the battle's havoc; and that word 
Was the little monosyllable "Check!" 

Pawns, and bishops, and castles, and knights 

Trembled together in sad dismay, 
While a pair of hearts were pulsing beside 

To a deeper, wilder, sweeter play. 
Yet the gaze of each — the man and the maid — 

On the board was fastened for turn of fate, 
When she archly whispered, with radiant glance, 

And a sparkling smile: "If you please, sir, mate!" 

And gently her fluttering triumph- hand. 

As white as a flake of purest pearl. 
She laid on the crown of her victor -king. 

While the other toyed -with a wanton curl. 
He lifted the first to his smiling lips 

And on it imprinted a trembling kiss; 
And he murmured softly: " I should not care 

For losing the game could I win but this!" 

What the maiden answered 'twere treason to tell, 

As her blushes deepened to crimson glow, 
Mounting like lightning flashes quick 

Till they burned on cheeks, and ears and brow. 
And in three months' time the church-bells rang, 

And the parson finished the game begun. 
When both wore the conqueror's triumph -smile. 

And both were happy, for both had won. 

— Appleton's Journal. 




THE SHELL. 



A. TENNYSON. 



See what a lovely shell, * 
Small and pure as a pearl, 
Lying close to my foot, 
Frail, but a work divine, 
Made so f airily well 
With delicate spire and whorl, 
How exquisitely minute, 
A miracle of design! 

What is it? a learned man 
Could give it a clumsy name. 
Let him name it who can. 
The beauty would be the same. 

The tiny cell is forlorn, 
Void of the little living will 
That made it stir on the shore. 
Did he stand at the diamond door 
Of his house in a rainbow frill ? 
Did he push, when he was uncurl'd, 
A golden foot or a fairy horn 
Thro' his dim water-world? 



14 



210 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



Slight, to be crush' d with a tap 
Of my finger nail on the sand, 
Small, but a work divine, 
Frail, but of force to withstand, 
Year upon year, the shock 
Of cataract seas that snap 
The three-decker's oaken spine 
Athwart the ledges of rock 
Here on the Breton strand! 




A HUNDEED YEARS FROM NOW. 




MRS. MARY A. FORD ("UNA.") 

HE surging sea of human life forever onward 

rolls, 
And bears to the eternal shore its daily freighi 

of souls; 
Though bravely sails our bark to-day, pale death 
sits at the prow, 
^ And few shall know we ever lived a hundred 

years from now. 

O mighty human brotherhood! why fiercely war and strive, 
While God's great world has ample space for everything 

alive? 
Broad fields, uncultured and unclaimed, are waiting for the 

plow 
Of progress that shall make them bloom a hundred years 

from now. 

Why should we try so earnestly in life's short narrow span, 
On golden stairs to climb so high above our brother man ? 
Why blindly at an earthly shrine in slavish homage bow ? 
Our gold will rust, ourselves be dust, a hundi'ed years from 
now! 



211 



212 GEMS OF POETRY. 

AVhy prize SO much the world's applause? Why dread so 

much its blame? 
A fleeting echo is its voice of censure or of fame ; 
The praise that thrills the heart, the scorn that dyes with 

shame the brow, 
Will be as long-forgotten dreams a hundred years from now. 

O patient hearts, that meekly bear your weary load of wrong! 
O earnest hearts, that bravely dare, and, striving, grow more 

strong! 
Press on till perfect peace is won; you'll never dream of how 
You struggled o'er life's thorny road a hundred years from 

now. 

Grand, lofty souls, who live and toil that freedom, right and 

truth 
Alone may rule the universe, for you is endless youth; 
When 'mid the blest, with God you rest, the grateful lands 

shall bow 
Above your clay in rev'rent love a hundred years from now. 

Earth's empires rise and fall, O Time! like breakers on thy 

shore ; 
They rush upon thy rocks of doom, go down, and are no 

more ; 
The starry wilderness of worlds that gem night's radiant 

brow 
Will light the skies for other eyes a hundred years from now. 

Our Father, to whose sleepless eyes the past and future 

stand 
An open page, like babes we cling to thy protecting hand; 
Change, sorrow, death are naught to us if we may safely bow 
Beneath the shadow of Thy throne, a hundred years from 

now. 



CHKISTMAS CHIMES. 



VARIOUS AUTHORS. 



Eise, happy morn, rise, holy morn. 

Draw forth the cheerful day from night; 
O Father, touch the east, and light 

The light that shone when Hope was born. 

— Tennyson. 

This day 
Shall change all griefs and quarrels into love. 

— Shakspere. 

Light on thy hills, Jerusalem! 

The Savior now is born! 
And bright on Bethlehem's joyous plains 

Breaks the first Christmas morn. 

— E. H. Sears. 

This happy day, whose risen sun 

Shall set not through eternity ; 
This holy day when Christ, the Lord, 

Took on Him our humanity. 

l^HEBE GARY. 

213 



214 GEMS OF POETRY. 

Immortal Babe, who this dear day, 
Didst change Thine Heaven for our clay, 
And didst with flesh thy God- head veil, 
Eternal Son of God, all hail! 

— Bishop Hall. 

There's a song in the air, there's a star in the sky, 
There's a mother's deep prayer, and a baby's low cry, 
And the star rains its fire while the beautiful sing, 
For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king. 

— JosiAH Gilbert Holland. 

With gentle deeds and kindly thoughts 

And loving words, withal. 
Welcome the merry Christmas in. 

And hear a brothers call. 

. — F. Lawrence. 

But the star that shines in Bethlehem 
Shines still, and shall not cease, 

And we listen still to the tidings 
Of glory and of peace. 

— Adelaide A. Procter. 

VHlio taught mankind on that first Christmas day. 
What 'twas to be a man; to give, not take; 
To serve, not rule; to nourish, not devour; 
To help, not crush; if need, to die, not live? 

C. KiNGSLEY. 

The poor will many a care forget, 
. The debtor think not of his debt. 
But as they each enjoy their cheer. 
Wish that 'twere Christmas all the year, 

— Thomas Miller. 



CHRISTMAS CHIMES. 215 

'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale; 
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; 
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer 
The poor man's heart through half the year. 

— Sir Walter Scott. 

As fits the holy Christmas birth, 

Be this, good friends, our carol still — 

Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, 
To men of gentle will. 

— W. M. Thackeray. 




A SONG OF HOME, 



EMILY C. H. MILLER. 




LL day in the deepening sunlight 

The tops of the mountain glow, 

All night the white waves of the moonlight 

Roll down to the valleys below. 

• 
I sit by my window and listen 

To the voice of the whispering breeze, 

As it bears me the breath of the clover, 

And the murmurous hum of the bees. 



But away over meadow and upland, 
A thousand swift fancies have flown, 

To see how around the old homestead 
The glory of summer has shone. 

I see it again in my dreaming; 

The twilight is heavy and deep. 
And across the green fields of the barley 

The night- winds come wooing to sleep. 

I can hear through the hush how the water 

Goes chiming along by the mill. 
With a tune that begins at the sunset, 



216 



A SONG OF HOME. 

When the sound of the grinding is still. 

O sweet as a mother's low singing 

To the baby asleep on her breast, 
Rings out that soft song of the water, 

When the twilight drops down from the west! 

How white through the boughs of the maple 
Gleams out the low cottage I love. 

With the moonlight asleep on the threshold, 
And the stars keeping vigils above! 

All hushed! but I know by the hearth stone 
They knelt at the nightfall to pray, 

And remembered with fond benediction 
The loved who have wandered away. 

And one hath no need of their praying, 
For once, when the summer was bright. 

She passed through the valley of shadow 
To the gates of the city of light. 

And kneeling alone with our sorrow — 

Alone on that sorrowful shore, 
AVe wept when we thought how her footsteps 

Would never come back any more. 

For the brows that eternity crowneth 

May never be saddened by woe, 
And the lips that have sung with the angels 

Are silent forever below. 




"WHEN THE SONG'S GONE." 



['•When the song's gone out of your life, you can't start another 
while it's a-ringing in your ears, but it's best to have a bit of silence^ 
and out o' that maybe a psalm'll come by -and-hy "-Edward 

Garrett. \ 

HEN the song's gone out of your life, 

That yon thought would last to the end — 
That lirst sweet song of the heart, 

That no after days can lend — 
The song of the birds to the trees, 

The song of the wind to the flowers. 
The song that the heart sings low to itself 
When it wakes in life's morning hours. 

You can start no other song," 

Not even a tremulous note 
Will falter forth on the empty air, 

It dies in your aching throat. 
It is all in vain that you try, 

For the spirit of song has fled — 
The nightingale sings no more to the rose 

When the beautiful flower is dead. 

So let silence softly fall 

On the bruised heart's quivering strings; 
Perhaps from the loss of all 




218 



"when the song's gone." MUSIC. 



219 



You may learn the song that the seraph sings: 
A grand and glorious psalm 

That will tremble, and rise and thrill, 
And fill your breast with its grateful rest, 

And its lonely yearnings still. 



Boston Transcript. 




THE DEPARTUEE OF THE SWALLOW. 



WILLIAM HO WITT 




|ND is the swallow gone ? 
Who beheld it? 
Which way sailed it? 
^^fe Farewell bade it none? 

No mortal saw it go; — 
But who doth hear 
Its summer cheer 

As it flitteth to and fro ? 

So the freed spirit flies ! 

From its surrounding clay- 
It steals away 

Like the swallow from the skies. 

Whither ? wherefore doth it go ? 

'Tis all unknown; 

We feel alone 
That a void is left below 





THE BEIDGE. 



H. W. LONGFELLOW. 




[By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] 

STOOD on the bridge at midnight, 
As the clocks were striking the hour, 

And the moon rose o'er the city, 
Behind the dark church-tower. 

I saw her bright reflection 

In the waters under me. 
Like a golden goblet falling 

And sinking into the sea. 



And far in the hazy distance 
Of that lovely night in June, 

The blaze of the flaming furnace 
Gleamed redder than the moon. 



Among the long, black rafters 

The wavering shadows lay, 
And the current that came from the ocean 

Seemed to lift and bear them away; 

As, sweeping and eddying through them, 
Rose the belated tide, 



222 GEMS OF POETRY. 

And, stroaniiuo- into the moonlight, 
The sea -weed floated wide. 

And like those waters rushing 
Among the wooden piers, 

A Hood of thoughts came o'er me 
That tilled my eyes with tears. 

How often, O how often. 

In the days that had gone by, 

I had stood on that bridge at midnight. 
And gazed on that wave and sky! 

How often, O how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 

Would bear me away on its bosom 
O'er the ocean wild and wide! 

For my heart was hot and restless, 
And my life was full of care. 

And the burden laid u[H)n me 

Seemed greater than I could bear. 

But now it has fallen from me. 

It is buried in the sea; 
And only the sorrow of others 

Throws its shadow over me. 

Yet whenever I cross the river 
On its bridge with wooden piers, 

Like the odor of brine fi'om the ocean 
Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 
Of care- encumbered men, 



THE BRIDGE. 

Each bearing his burden of sorrow, 
Have crossed the bridge since then. 

I see the long procession 

Still passing to and fro, 
The young heart hot and restless, 

And the old subdued and slow! 

And forever and forever. 

As long as the river flows. 
As long as the heart has passions, 

As long as life has woes; 

The moon and its broken reflection 
And its shadows shall appear, 

As the symbol of love in heaven. 
And its wavering image here. 



223 




NEVEE FAILED US. 



Upon the sadness of the sea, 
The sunset broods regretfully; 
From the far, lonely spaces, slow 
Withdraws the wistful afterglow. 

So out of life the splendor dies ; 
So darken all the happy skies ; 
So gathers twilij^ht, cold and stern, 
But overhead the planets burn; 

And up the east another day 
Shall chase the bitter dark away ; 
What though our eyes with tears be wet ? 
The sunrise never failed us yet. 

The blush of dawn may yet restore 
Our light and hope and joy once more: 
Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget 
That sunrise never failed us yet. 




224 




SONGS. 



SHAKSPERE. 




ARIETj S SONG. 

HERE the bee sucks, there lurk I; 

In a cowslip's bell I lie; 

There I couch when owls do cry; 

On the bat's back I do fly. « 

After summer merrily, 

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now. 

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough 



THE FAIKY TO PUCK. 

Over hill, over dale, 
Thorough bush, thorough brier. 
Over park, over pale, 
Thorough flood, thorough fire, 
I do wander everywhere, 
Swifter than the moon's sphere. 
And I serve the Fairy Queen; 
To dew her orbs upon the green ; 
The cowslips tall her pensioners be, 
In their gold coats spots you see, — 
Those be rubies, fairy favors; 
In those freakles live their savors. 



15 



225 



226 GEMS OF POETRY. 

I must go seek some dew-drops here. 
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 



AMIENS S SONG. 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 
Thou art not so unkind 

As man's ingratitude; 
Thy tooth is not so keen, 
Because thou art not seen, 

Although thy breath be rude. 
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
That dost not bite so nigh 

As benefits forgot: 
Though thou the waters warp. 
Thy sting is not so sharp 

As friend remembered not. 



hark! hark! the lark! 
Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise. 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chaliced flowers that lies ; 
And winking Mary buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes; 
With everything that pretty bin; 

My lady sweet, arise.. 



UNDER THE GREENWOOD-TREE. 

Under the greenwood -tree 
Who loves to lie with me. 
And tune his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird's throat. 
Come hither, come hither, comg hither; 



SONGS. 

Here shall lie see 
No enemy, 
But winter and rough weather. 

Who doth ambition shun, 
And loves to live i' the sun, 
Seeking the food he eats, 
And pleased with what he gets, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither! 
Here shall he see 
No enemy. 
But winter and rough weather. 



227 



^^'^^^^r^^."^ '^^l\ \ 




iW ''^ 





THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL. 



MRS. ANNA L. BARBAULD. 



Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares. 

Of earth and folly born; 
Ye shall not dim the light that streams 

From this celestial morn. 

To-morrow will be time enough • 

To feel your harsh control; 
Ye shall not violate, this day. 

The Sabbath of my soul. 

Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts ; 

Let fires of vengeance die; 
And, purged from sin, may I behold 

A God of purity! 




228 



THE BOWEE OF BLISS. 



E. SPENSER. 




HERE the most dainty paradise on ground 

Itself doth offer to his sober eye, 
In which all pleasures plenteously abound, 
And none does others' happiness envy; 
The painted flowers, the trees upshooting 
high. 

The dales for shade, the hills for breathing 
space. 
The trembling groves, the crystal running by , 

And that which all fair works doth most aggrace. 
The art. which all that wrought, appeared in no placf , 



One would have thought (so cunningly the rude 

And scorned parts were mingled with the line) 
That nature had for wantonness ensued 
Art, and that art at nature did repine; 
So striving each the other to undermine. 
Each did the other's work more beautify; 
So differing both in wills, agreed in fine: 
So all agreed through sweet diversity, 
This garden to adorn with all variety. 



229 



230 GEMS 01^ 1>0ETRY. 

Eftsoons they heard a most melodious sound, 

Of all that might delight a dainty ear, 
Such as at once might not on living ground, 
Save in this paradise be heard elsewhere: 
Right hard it was for wight which did it hear, 
To read what manner music that might be: 
For all that pleasinig is to living ear. 
Was there consorted in one harmony; 
Birds, voices, instruments, winds, waters, all agree. 

The joyous birds, shrouded in cheerful shade. 

Their notes unto the voice attempered sweet; 
The angelical soft trembling voices made 

To the instruments divine respondence meet; 
The silver sounding instruments did meet 
With the b'-ise murmur of the water's fall: 
The water's fall with difference discreet, 
Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call: 
The gentle warbling wind low answered to all. 





KATIJRE'S HYMNS. 



J. G. WHITTIER. 




[By permission of HoughtoD, Mififiin & Co."l 
And to her voice the solemn ocean lent, 
Touching its harp of sand, a deep accompaniment. 

HE harp at Nature's advent strung 
Has never ceased to play; 
The song the star^ q^ morning sung 
Has never died away. 

And prayer is made, and praise is giver 
By all things near and far; 
The ocean looketh up to heaven, 
And mirrors every star. 

Its waves are kneeling on the strand, 

As kneels the human knee, 
Their white locks bowing to the sand. 

The priesthood of the sea ! 

They pour their glittering treasures forth, 

Their gifts of pearl they bring. 
And all the listening hills of earth 

Take up the song they sing. 

231 



232 GEMS OF POETRY. 

t 

The green earth sends her incense up 
From many a mountain shrine; 

From folded leaf and dewy cup 
She pours her sacred wine. 

The mists above the morning rills 
Rise white as wings of prayer; 

The altar- curtains of the hills 
Are sunset's purple air. 

The winds with hymns of praise are loud, 

Or low with sobs of pain, — 
The thunder- organ of the cloud. 

The dropping tears of rain. 

With drooping head and branches crossed 

The twilight forest grieves, 
Or- speaks with tongues of Pentecost 

From all its sunlit leaves. 

The blue sky is the temple's arch. 

Its transept earth and air, 
The music of its starry march 

The chorus of a prayer. 

So Nature keeps the reverent frame 
With which her years began. 

And all her signs and voices shame 
The prayerless heart of man. 




MAJESTY OF GOD, 



T. STERNHOLD. 



The Lord descended from above, 
And bowed the heavens most high, 

And underneath his feet he cast 
The darkness of the sky. 

On cherubim and seraphim 

Full royally he rode. 
And on the wings of mighty winds 

Came flying all abroad. 

He sat serene upon the floods. 

Their fury to restrain; 
And he, as sovereign Lord and King, 

For evermore shall reign. 

Give glory to his awful name, 

And honor him alone; 
Give worship to his majesty, 

Upon his holy throne. 



"NO, NOT MORE WELCOME." 



TOM MOOKE. 



No, not more welcome thc^ fairy numbers 

Of music fall on the sleeper's ear, 
When, half -awaking from fearful slumbers, 

H3 thinks the full choir of heaven is near, — 
Than came that voice, when all forsaken. 

This heart long had sleeping lain, 
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken 

To such benign, blessed sounds again. 

Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing 

Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell; 
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling 

Of all my soul echoed to its spell! 
'Twas whisper'd balm — 'twas sunshine spoken ! 

I'd live years of grief and pain. 
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken 

By such benign, blessed sounds again. 



234 




BEAUTIFUL HANDS. 



MRS. ELLEN H. GATES. 




UCH beautiful, beautiful hands, 

They're neither white nor small. 
And you, I know, would scarcely thinh 

That they were fair at all; 
I've looked on hands in form and hue 

A. sculptor's dream might be, 
Yet are these aged, wrinkled hands 

Most beautiful to me. 



Such beautiful, beautiful hands; 

Tho' heart was weary and sad, 
These j)atient hands kept toiling on 

That the children might be glad; 
I often weep, as looking back, 

To childhood's distant day, 
I think how these hands rested not 

When mine were at their play. 

Such beautiful, beautiful hands. 
They're growing feeble now, 

And time and toil have left their mark 
On hand, and heart, and brow; 

235 



236 CtEms op poetby. 

Alas, alas ! the nearing time, ' 

The sad, sad day to me. 
When 'neath the daisies, cold and white. 

These hands will folded be. 

But O beyond these shadowy lands, 

Where all is bright and fair, 
I know full well these dear old hands 

Will palms of victory bear; 
Where crystal streams thro' endless years 

Flow over golden sands. 
And where the old grow young again, 

I'll clasp my mother's hands. 



UNDER MILTON'S PICTURE. 



J. DRYDEN. 



Three Poets, in three distant ages born, 
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. 
The first in loftiness of thought surpassed; 
The next in majesty; m both the last. 
The force of Nature could no further go; 
To make a third, she joined the former two. 





WOMAN'S VOICE. 



EDWIN ARNOLD. 




OT in the swaying of the summer trees, 

When evening breezes sing their vesper hymn — 

Not in the minstrel's mighty symphonies, 
Nor ripples breaking on the river's brim, 

Is earth's best music; these may leave awhile 

High thoughts in happy hearts, and carking 
cares beguile. 



But even as the swallow's silken wings, 
Skimming the water of the sleeping lake, 

Stir the still silver with a hundred rings — 
So doth one sound the sleeping spirit wake 

To brave the danger and to bear the harm — 

A low and gentle voice — dear woman's chief est charm. 



An excellent thing it is ! and ever lent 

To truth, and love, and meekness; they who own 

This gift by the all gracious Giver sent, 
Ever by quiet step and smile are known : 

By kind eyes that have wept, hearts that have sorrow' d — 

By patience never tired, from their own trials borrow' d. 

237 • 

# 



288 GEMS OF POETRY. 

An excellent thing it is — when first in gladness 

A mother looks into her infant's eyes — 
Smiles to its smiles, and saddens at its sadness — 

Pales at its paleness, sorrows at its cries; 
Its food and sleep, and smiles and little joys — 
All these come ever blent with one low, gentle voice. 

An excellent thing it is when life is leaving — 

Leaving with gloom and gladness, joys and cares — 

The strong heart failing, and the high soul grieving 
With strongest thoughts, and wild, unwonted fears;' 

Then, then, a woman's low, soft sympathy 

Comes like an angel's voice to teach us how to die. 

But a most excellent thing it is in youth. 

When the fond lover hears the loved one's tone. 

That fears, but longs, to syllable the truth — 
How their two hearts are one, and she his own; 

It makes sweet human music — oh! the spells 

That haunt the trembling tale a bright-eyed maiden tells. 





WE SHALL KNOW. 



ANNIE HERBERT. 




HEN the mists have rolled in splendor 

From the beauty of the hills, 
And the sunshine, warm and tender, 

Falls in kisses on the rills, 
We may read love's shining letter 

In the rainbow of the spray, — 
We shall know each other better 

When the mists have cleared away. 



If we err, in human blindness, 

And forget that we are dust; 
If we miss the law of kindness 

When we struggle to be just. 
Snowy wings of peace shall cover 

All the plain that hides away, — 
When the weary watch is over. 

And the mists have cleared away. 



When the mists have risen above us, 
As our Father knows his own, 

Face to face with those that love us, 
We shall know as we are known; 



239 



240 GEMS OF POETRY. 

Love, beyond the orient meadows 
Floats the golden fringe of day, 

Heart to heart, we bide the shadows, 
Till the mists have cleared away. 

We shall know as we are known, 

Nevermore to walk alone. 

In the dawning of the morning. 
When the mists have cleared away 




LIGHT AFTER DARKNESS. 



Light after darkness, 

Gain after loss, 
Strength after weakness, 

Crown after cross. 
Sweet after bitter, 

Song after fears. 
Home after wandering, 

Praise after tears. 

Sheaves after sowing, 

Sun after rain. 
Light after mystery, 

Peace after pain, 
Joy after sorrow. 

Calm after blast, 
Rest after weariness, 

Sweet rest at last. 

Near after distant. 

Gleam after gloom. 
Love after loneliness, 

Life after tomb; 
After long agony. 

Rapture of bliss; 
Right was the pathway 

Leading to this! 

lo 241 



THE FREE MIND. 



W. L. GARRISON. 



'High walls and huge the body may confine, 
And iron gates obstruct the prisoner's gaze, 
And massive bolts may baffle his design, 

And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways: 
Yet scorns the immortal mind this base control! 

No chains can bind it, and no cell inclose: 
Swifter than light, it flies from pole to pole, 

And in a flash from earth to heaven it goes! 
It leaps from mount to mount; from vale to vale 

It wanders, plucking honeyed fruits and flowers; 
It visits home, to hear the fireside tale. 

Or, in sweet converse, pass the joyous hours. 
'Tis up before the sun, roaming afar. 
And, in its watches, wearies every star! 






THE PEIDE OF BATTERY B. 

OUTH Mountain towered upon our right, far off 
the river lay; 
And over on the wooded hight we held their 
lines at bay. 

At last the muttering guns were still; the day 
died slow and wan. 
At last the gunners' pipes did fill, the sargeant's 
yarns began. 

When, as the wind a moment blew aside the fragrant flood 
Our briarwoods raised, within our view a little maiden 
stood. 

A tiny tot of six or seven, from fireside fresh she seemed, 
(Of such a little one in heaven one soldier often dreamed.) 

And as we stared her little hand went to her curly head 
In grave salute: " And who are you?" at length the sargeant 
said. 



"And where' s your home ?" he growled again. She lisped 
out "Who is me? 

Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane, the Pride of Bat- 
tery B. 



243 



244 GEMS OF POETRY. 

^"My home ? Why, that was burned away, and Pa and Ma 

are dead. 
And so I ride the guns all day along with Sargeant Ned. 

"And live a drum that's not a toy, a cap with feathers, too, 
And I march beside the drummer boy on Sundays at re- 
view. 

"But now our 'bacca's all give out, the men can't have 

their smoke, 
And so they're cross — why, even Ned won't play with me 

and joke. 

"And the big colonel said to-day — I hate to hear him 

swear — 
He'd give a leg for a good pipe like the Yank had over 

there ; 

"And so I thought when beat the drum and the big guns 

were still, 
I'd creep beneath the tent and come out here across the 

hill 

''And beg, good mister Yankee man, you'd give me some 

Lone Jack; 
Please do — when we get some again I'll surely bring it 

back. 

"Indeed I will, for Ned — says he— 'if I do what I say, 
I'll be a general yet, maybe, and ride a prancing bay.' " 

We brimmed her tiny apron o'er; you should have heard 

her laugh 
As each man from his scanty store shook out a generous 

half. 



TfiJ PRIDE OF BATTERY B. 245 

To kiss the little mouth stooped down a score of grimy 

men, 
Until the sergeant's husky voice said '"Tention squad," and, 

then 

'■-• * 

We gave her escort, till good-night the pretty waif we bid 
And watched her toddle out of sight— or else 'twas tears 

that hid 

Her tiny form — nor turned about a man, nor spoke a word 
Till after awhile a far, hoarse shout upon the wind we 
heard; 

We sent it back, and cast sad eyes on the scene around; 
A baby's hand had touched the ties that brothers once had 
bound. 

That's all — save when the dawn awoke again the work of 

hell, 
And through the sullen clouds of smoke the screaming 

missiles fell. 

Our General often rubbed his glass, and marveled much to 
see 

Not a single shell that v/hole day ie'\ in the camp of Bat- 
tery B. 




A LOVE SONG. 



A. P. GRAVES. 

Ah! swan of slenderness, dove of tenderness, 

Jewel of joys, arise! 
The little red lark, like a rosy spark, 

Unto his sunburst flies, 
But till you are risen, earth is a prison, 

Full of my captive sighs. 
Then wake, and discover to your fond lover 

The morn of your matchless eyes. 

The dawn is dark to me; hark, oh! hark to me. 

Pulse of my heart, I pray, 
And gently gliding out of thy hiding, 

D.izzle me with thy day! 
And oh! I'll ily to thee, singing, and sigh to thee, 

Passion so sweet and gay, 
The lark shall listen, and dewdrops glisten, 

Laughing on every spray. 




246 




THE SOURCE OF HAPPINESS. 



WILCOX. 



Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief ? 

Or is thy heart oppressed with woes untold? 
Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief ? 

Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold. — 

'Tis when the rose is wrapped in many a fold 
Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there 

Its life and beauty ; not when, all unrolled, 
Leaf after leaf, its bosom, rich and fair, 
Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient air. 

Rouse to some work of high and holy love, 
And thou an angel's happiness shalt know, — 

Shalt bless the earth while in the world above; 
The good begun by thee shall onward, flow 
In many a branching stream, and wider grow; 

The seed that, in these few and fleeting hours. 
Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow, 

Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers, 
And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal bowers. 



247 



THE MYSTERIOUS MUSIC OF OCEAN. 



1 








■@ 


?^^* 



ONJ&LY and wild it rose, 
That strain of solemn music from the sea, 
As though the bright air trembled to disclose 
An ocean mystery. • 

Again a low, sweet tone, 
Fainting in murmurs on the listening day, 
Just bade the excited thought its presence own, 

Then died away. 



Once more the gush of sound. 
Struggling and swelling from the heaving plain. 
Thrilled a rich peal triumphantly around, 

And fled again. 

O boundless deep ! we know 
Thou hast strange wonders in thy gloom concealed, 
Gems, flashing gems, from whose unearthly glow 

Sunlight is sealed. 



And an eternal spring 
Showers her rich colors with unsparing hand, 
Where coral trees their graceful branches fling 

O'er golden sand. 



THE MYSTERIOUS MUSIC OF OCEAN 249 

But tell, O restless main ! 
Who are the dwellers in thy world beneath, 
That thus the watery realm cannot contain 

The joy they breathe? 

Emblem of glorious might! 
Are thy wild children like thyself arrayed. 
Strong in immortal and unchecked delight, 

Which cannot ^fade? 

Or to mankind allied. 
Toiling with wo, and passion's fiery sting. 
Like their own home, where storms or peace j^reside, 

As the winds bring ? 

Alas for huinan thought ! 
How does it flee existence, worn and old. 
To win companionship with beings wrought 

Of finer mold! 

'Tis vain the reckless waves 
Join with loud revel the dim ages flown. 
But keep each secret of their hidd-en caves 

Dark and unknown. 

— Wa hit's Na Hon al Gaz- .' 




SPKING. 



N. P. WII4LIS. 



HE Spring is here — the deHcate- footed May, 
With its slight fingers full of leaves and 
flowers; 
And with it comes a thirst to be away, 

Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours— 
A feeling that is like a sense of wings. 
Restless to soar above these perishing things. 

We pass out fi'om the city's feverish hum. 
To find refreshment in the silent woods ; 
And nature, that is beautiful and dumb, 
Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods. 
Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal. 
To teach the indolent heart it still vciu^ifee/. 

Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon, 
The waters tripping with their silver feet. 

The turning to the light of leaves in June, 
And the light whisper as their edges meet — 

Strange — that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, 

The spirit, walking in their midst alone. 

There's no contentment, in a world like this, 
Save in forgetting the immortal dream; 




250 



SPRING. 



251 



We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss, 

That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream; 
Bird-like, the prisoned soul will lift its eye 
And sing — till it is hooded from the sky. 




ON THE DEATH OF J. K DRAKE. 



r. G. HALLECK. 



Green be the turf above thee, 

Friend of my better days! 
None knew thee but to love thee, 

Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell, when thou Avert dying, 

• From eyes unused to weep, 
And long, where thou art lying, 
Will tears the cold turf steep. 

When hearts, whose truth was proven. 
Like thine, are laid in earth. 

There should a wreath be woven 
To tell the work! their worth. 

And I, who woke each morrow, 
To clasp thy hand in mine, 

Who shared thy joy and sorrow, 
Whose weal and wo were thine, — 

It should be mine to braid it 

Around thy. faded brow; 
But I've in vain essayed it, 

And feel I cannot now. 



ON THE DEATH OF J. R. DRAKE,, 

While meiuory bids me weep thee, 
Nor thoughts nor words are free, 

The grief is fixed too deofjly 
That mourns a man like thee. 



253 




THANATOPSIS. 



W. C. BRYANT. 



[Thanatopsis — one of the first and best poems of the American 
Homer — was published in 1817, in the North American Review, 
and at once attracted the merited attention wh'ch has never abat- 
e.l. This "Hymn of Death" is as sublime and beautiful as i\ 
Himalayan peak bathed in tae rays of the risit.^' sun. The follow- 
ing verses were prefixed to Thanatopsis at first:] 



OT that from life, and all its woes, 

The hand of death shall set me free; 
Not that this head shall then repose, 
In the low vale, most peacefully. 

"Ah, when I touch time's farthest brink, 
A kinder solace must attend; 
It chills my very soul to think 

On that dread hour when life must end. 




'"In vain the flattering verse may breathe 
Of ease from pain, and rest from strife; 

There is a sacred dread of death, 
Inwoven with the strings of life. 

"This bitter cup at first was given, 
When angry Justice frowned severe; 



254 



THANATOPSIS. 255 

And 'tis the eternal doom of Heaven, 

That man must view the grave with fear." 

To him who, in the love of Nature, holds 

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 

A various language. For his gayer hours 

She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 

And eloquence of beauty; and she glides 

Into his darker musings with a mild 

And gentle sympathy, that steals away 

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 

Over thy spirit, and sad images 

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house , 

Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, — ■ 

Go forth unto the open sky, and list 

To nature's teachings, while from all around — 

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 

Comes a still Voice— Yet a few days, and thee 

The all-beholding sun shall see no more 

In all his course. Nor yet in the cold ground. 

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; 

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 

Thine individual being, shalt thou go 

To mix forever with the elements. 

To be a brother to the insensible rock 

And to the sluo:orish clod, which the rude swain 

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. 



1:56 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



Yet not to thy eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone; nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kingt 
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, 
Kock-ribbed and ancient as the sun; the vales. 
Stretching in pensive quietness between; 
The venerable woods ; rivers that move 
In majesty; and the complaining brooks. 
That make the meadow green; and, poured round all, 
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun. 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce ; 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, 
Save his own dashings; yet — the dead are there; 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep —the dead reign there alone. 
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou shalt fall 
Unnoticed by the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 



THANATOPSIS. 257 

His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid. 
The bowed with age, the infant, in the smiles 
And beauty of its innocent age cut off, — 
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side, 
By those, who, in their turn, shall follow them. 

So live, that, when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, that moves 
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death. 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night. 
Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 





DAYID'S LAIiIENT OYEK ABSALOM. 



N. P. WILLIS. 




HE soldiers of the king trod to and fro, 
Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief, 
'^ The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, 
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, 
As if he feared the slnmberer might stir. 
A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade 
As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form 
Of David entered, and he gave command, 
In a low tone, to his few followers, 
And left him with his dead. The king stood still 
Till the last echo died: then, throwing off 
The sackcloth fi-om his brow, and laying back 
The pall from the still features of his child. 
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth 
In the resistless eloquence of woi- 



^'Alas! my noble boy! that thou should' st die!- 
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! 

That death should settle in thy glorious eye, 
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! 

How could he mark thee for the silent tomb » 
My proud boy Absalom! 

258 



David's lament over absalom. 259 

" Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill, 
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee. 

How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, 

Like a rich harp -string, yearning to caress thee, 

And hear thy sweet ^' my father,'''' from these dumb 
And cold lips, Absalom! 

" The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush 
Of music, and the voices of the young; 

And life will pass me in the mantling blush. 
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung; — 

But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come 
To meet me, Absalom! 

"And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart. 
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, 

How will its love for thee, as I depart. 

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! 

It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom. 
To see thee, Absalom ! 

" And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, ' 
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee: — 

And thy dark sin! — Oh! I could drink the cup, 
If from this wo its bitterness had won thee. 

May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home. 
My erring Absalom!" 

He covered up his face, and bowed himself 
A moment on his child: then, giving him 
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped 
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer; 
And, as a strength were given him of God, 
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall 



260 GEMS OF POETRY. 

Firmly and decently, and left him there, 
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. 



TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON. 



W. R. SPENCER. 



Too late I stayed, forgive the crime, 

Unheeded flew the hours; 
How noiseless falls the foot of Time 

That only treads on flowers! 

What eye with clear account remarks 

The ebbing of his glass, 
When all its sands are diamond sparks 

That dazzle as they pass ! 

Ah! who to sober measurement 
Time's happy swiftness brings, 

When birds of Paradise have lent 
Their plumage to its wings ? 




THE WINGED WOKSHIPERS. 



C. SPKAGUE. 




AY, guiltless pair, 

AVhat seek ye from the fields of heaven 
Ye have no need of prayer, 
Ye have no sins to be forgiven. 

Why perch ye here, 
Where mortals to their Maker bend ? 

Can your pure spirits fear 
The God ye never could offend ? 

Ye never knew 
The crimes for which we come to weep: 

Penance is not for you, 
Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. 

To you 'tis given 
To wake sweet nature's untaught lays; 

Beneath the arch of heaven 
To chirp away a life of praise. 

Then spread each wing, 
Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands, 

And join the choirs that sing 
In yon blue dome not reared with hands. 

261 



262 GEMS OF POETRY. 

Or, if ye stay, 
To note the consecrated hour, 

Teach me the airy way. 
And let me try your envied power. 

Above the crowd, 
On upward wings could I but fly, 

I'd bathe in yon bright cloud. 
And seek the stars that gem the sky. 

'Twere heaven indeed. 
Through fields of trackless light to soar, 

On nature's charms to feed, 
And nature's own great God adore. 




THE ISLE OF THE LONG AGO. 



BENJ. F. TAYLOR- 




[By permission of S. C, Griggs & Co.] 
A WONDERFUL stream is the river Time, 

As it runs tiirough the reabn of tears, 
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme. 
And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime, 
As it blends with the ocean of years. 

How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow, 

And the summers like buds between. 
And the year in the sheaf,— so they come and they go, 
On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow, 

As it glides in the shadow and sheen. 

There 's a magical Isle up the river Time, 

Where the softest of airs are playing; 
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, 
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, 

And the Junes with the roses are straying. 

And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago, 

And we bury our treasures there; 
There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow ; 
There are heaps of dust — but we loved them so! 

There are trinkets and tresses of hair; 



263 



264 GEMS OF POETRY. 

There are fragments of song that nobody smgs; 

And a part of an infant's prayer; 
There's a kite unswept, and a harp without strings; 
There are broken vows and pieces of rings, 

And the garments that she used to wear. 

There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore 

By the Mirage is Hfted in air, 
And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar 
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, 

When the wind down the river is fair. 

O remembered for aye, be the blessed Isle, 

All the day of our life until night; 
When the evening comes with its beautiful smile, 
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile. 

May that " Greenwood " of soul be in sight! 





THERE COMES A TIME. 



There comes a time, or soon or late, 
"When every word unkindly spoken, 

Returns with all the force of fate, 
To bear reproof from spirits broken. 

Who slumber in that tranquil rest. 

Which waking cares no more molest. 

Oh! were the wealth of worlds our own, 
We freely would the treasures yield, 

If eyes tfiat here their last have shone, 
If lipH m endless silence sealed, 

One look of love o'er us might cast, 

Might breathe forgiveness to the past. 

When anger arms the thoughtless tongue, 
To wound the feelings of a friend. 

Oh! thmk ere yet his heait be wrung. 
In what remorse thy wrath may end; 

Withhold to-day the words of hate, 

To-morrow it may be too late. 




265 



A WISH. 



S. ROGERS. 

Mine be a cot beside the hill; 

A bee -hive's hum shall soothe mine ear; 
A willowy brook that turns a mill, 

With many a fall shall linger near. 

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch 
Shall twitter from her clay built nest; 

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, 
And share my meal, a welcome guest. 

Around my ivied porch shall spring 

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The village -church among the trees, 

Where first our marriage -vows were given 

With merry peals shall swell the breeze, 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 





LINES WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT 
AT EVENING. 



W. WORDSWORTH. 

How richly glows the water's breast 

Before us, tinged with evening hues, 
While facing thus the crimson west, 

The boat her silent course pursues ! 
And see how dark the backward stream! 

A little moment past so smihng! 
And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam. 

Some other loiterers beguiling. 

Such views the youthful bard allure ; 

But, heedless of the following gloom. 
He deems their colors shall endure 

Till peace go with him to the tomb. 
And let him nurse his fond deceit. 

And what if he must die in sorrow! 
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet. 

Though grief and pain may come to-morrow! 




WHO WILL CARE. 



Who will care ? 
When we lay beneath the daisies, 

Underneath the churchyard mold, 
And the long grass o'er our faces 

Lays its fingers damp and cold ; 
When we sleep from care and sorrow, 

And the ills of earthly life — 
Sleep, to know no sad to-morrow. 

With its bitterness of strife — 
Who will care? 

Who will care ? 
AVho will come to weep above us. 

Lying, oh! so white and still, 
Underneath the skies of summer. 

When all nature's pulses thrill 
To a new life, glad and tender, 

Full of beauty, rich and sweet. 
And the world is clad in splendor 

That the years shall e'er repeat — 
Who will care ? 

Who will care ? 
Who will think of white hands lying 
On a still and silent breast, 

268 



WHO WILL CARE i'— NIGHT AND DEATH. 269 

Never more to know of sighing, 

Evermore to know of rest ? 
Who will care ? No one can tell us, 

But if rest and peace befall, 
Will it matter if they miss us, 

Or they miss us not at all ? 
Not at all! 



NIGHT AND DEATH. 



J. BLANCO WHITE. 

Mysterious night! when our first parent knew 
Thee from report Divine, and heard thy name, 
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame. 

This glorius canopy of light and blue? 

Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, 

Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 
Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came, 

And lo! creation widened in man's view. 

Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed 
Within thy beams, O sun! or who could find. 

Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed. 

That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind ? 

Why do we, then, shun death with anxious strife ? 

If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life ? 




THE BABY. 



No shoes to hide her tiny toes, 

No stockings on her feet; 
Her supple ankles white as snow, 

Or early blossoms sweet. 

Her simple dress of sprinkled pink, 

HeF double, dimpled chin, 
Her puckered lip and balmy mouth, 

With not one tooth within. 

Her eyes so like her mother's eyes. 

Two gentle liquid things ; 
Her face is like an angel's face — 

We're glad she has no wings. 

She is the budding of our love, 

A gift God gave to us; 
AVe must not love the gift o'er well, 

'Twould be no blessing thus. 

— Changed from the Scotch. 





THE DYING WIFE. 



H. M. T. 




AY my babe upon my bosom, 
Let me feel her sweet, warm breath; 
A strange chill is passing o'er me. 
And I know that it is death. 
Let me gaze once more on the treasure 
Scarcely given, ere I go; 
Feel her rosy, dimpled fingers 
"Wander o'er my cheeks of snow. 



I am passing through the waters; 
But the blessed shore appears. 
Kneel beside me, husband dearest, 
Let me kiss away thy tears. 
Wrestle with thy grief as Jacob 
Strove from midnight until day; 
It will seem an angel visit 
When it vanishes away. 

Lay my babe upon my bosom — 
'Tis not long I'll know she's there. 
See how to my heart she nestles — 
'Tis a pearl I'd love to wear. 

271 



272. 



GEMS OF POETRY. 

Tell her sometimes of her mother; 
You will call her by my name. 
Shield her from the Avinds of sorrow, 
If she errs, oh ! gently blame. 

Lead her sometimes where I'm sleeping, 
I will answer when she calls ; 
And my breath shall stir her ringlets 
When my voice in whisper falls. 
And her mild, blue eyes will brighten 
She will wonder whence it came — 
In her heart when years roll o'er her. 
She will find her mother's name. 

If in after years, beside thee 
Sits another in my chair, 
If her voice is sweeter music, 
And her face than mine, more fair. 
If a cherub calls thee " Father," 
Far more beautiful than this. 
Love your first-born, oh! my husband, 
Turn not from the motherless. 





NEW POEM BY LOKD BYRON. 




N the dome of my sires as the clear moonbeam 

falls 
Through silence and shade o'er its desolate 

walls, 
It shines from afar like the glories of old: 
It gilds but it warms not, — 'tis dazzling but 

cold. 



Let the sunbeam be bright for the younger of days; 
'Tis the light that should shine on a race that decays, 
When the stars are on high and the dews on the ground, 
And the long shadow lingers the ruin around. 

And the step that o'er- echoes the gray floor of stone 
Falls sullenly now, for 'tis only my own; 
And sunk are the voices that sounded in mirth, 
And empty the goblets, and dreary the hearth. 



And vain was each effort to raise and recall 
The brightness of old to illumine our hall; 
And vain was the hope to avert our decline, 
And the fame of my fathers has faded to mine. 

And theirs was the wealth and the fullness of fame, 
And mine to inherit too haughty a name; 

18 273 



274 



GEMS OF POETEY. 



And theirs were the times and the triumphs of yore^ 
And mine to regret, but renew them no more. 

And ruin is fixed on my tower and my wall, 
Too hoary to fade and too massy to fall; 
It tells not of time's or the tempest's decay, 
But the wreck of the line that have held it in sway. 





AT A SOLEMN MUSIC. 



J. MILTON. 




ILEST pair of syrens, pledges of heaven's joy, 
Sphere- born, harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse, 
Wed your divine sounds, and mix'd power em- 
ploy. 
Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce: 

And to our high-raised phantasy present 
That undisturbed song of pure concent, 

Aye sung before the sapphire-color' d throne 

To Him that sits thereon. 

With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee; 

Where the bright seraphim, in burning row, 

Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow; 

And the cherubic host, in thousand quires, 

Touch their immortal harps of golden wires, 

With those just spirits that wear victorious palms 

Hymns devout and holy psalms 

Singing everlastingly : 

That we on earth, with undiscording voice. 

May rightly answer that melodious noise; 

As once we did, till disproportioned sin 

Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din 

Broke the fair music that all creatures made 

To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd 

275 - 



276 



GEMS or POETR 



In perfect diapason, -whilst tliey strod 

In first obedience, and their state of good. 

Oh, may we soon again renew that song, 

And keep in tune with heaven, till God, ere long, 

To his celestial concert us unite, 

To live with him, and sing in endless morn of light. 




THE SONG OF STEAM. 




[The following fine poem, by George W. Cutter, of Covington, Ky., 
Blackwood pronounced " the best lyric of the century: " 

ARNESS me down with your iron bands; 

Be sure of your curb and rein : 
For I scorn the power of your puny hands, 

As a tempest scorns a chain! 
How I laugh'd as I lay conceal'd from sight 

For many a countless hour, 
At the childish boast of human might, 

And the pride of human power! 

When I saw an army upon the land, 

A navy upon the seas, 
Creeping along, a snail-like band, 

Or waiting a wayward breeze ; 
When I marked the peasant fairly ree 

With the toil which he faintly bore. 
As he feebly turned the tardy wheel, 

Or toiled at the weary oar: 

AVhen I measured the panting courser's speed. 

The flight of the courier-dove, 
As they bore the law a king decreed, 

Or the lines of impatient love — 
I could not but think how the world would feel. 

As these were outstripp'd afar. 
When I should be bound to the rushing keel, 

Or chain' d to the flying car! 



277 



278 THE SONO OF STEAM. 

Ha, ha, ha ! they found me at last; 

They invited me forth at length, 
And I rushed to my throne with a thunder- blast, 

And laugh'd in my iron strength! 
Oh ! then ye saw a wondrous change 

On the earth and ocean wide, 
Where now my fiery armies range. 

Nor wait for wind or tide. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! the waters o'er, 

The mountain's steep decline; 
Time — space-^have yielded to my power; 

The world — the world is mine! 
The rivers the sun hath earliest blessed. 

Or those where his beams decline ; 
The giant streams of the queenly West, 

Or the Orient floods divine. 

The ocean pales where'er I sweep, 

To hear my strength rejoice, 
And the monsters of the briny deep 

Cower, trembling at my voice. 
I carry the wealth and ore of eartb, 

The thought of his god like mind; 
The wind lags after my flying forth. 

The lightning is left behind. 

In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine 

My tireless arm doth play, 
Where the rocks never saw the sun's decline, 

Or the dawn of a glorious day; 
I bring earth's glittering jewels up, 

From hidden cave below, 
And I make the fountain's granite cup 

With a crystal gush o'erflow, 



THE SONG OF STEAM. 

1 blow the bellows, I forge the steel, 

In all the shops of trade; 
I hammer the ore and turn the wheel 

Where my arms of strength are made. 
I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint— 

I carry, I spin, I weave; 
And all my doings I put into print 

On every Saturday eve 

I've no muscles to weary, no breast to decay, 

No bones to be " laid on the shelf," 
And soon I intend you may "go and play," 

While I manage the world myself. 
But harness me down with your iron bands. 

Be sure of your curb and rein: 
For I scorn the strength of your puny hands, 

As the tempest scorns a chain! 



■^■' -.■v^3^?'^'7- '; . -• ■ -- . £,T^-— 




MY LITTLE BOY THAT DIED. 



DINAH MULOCH-CRAIK. 



3j^B OOK on his pretty face for just one minute, 
^^^ His braided frock, his dainty buttoned shoes, 
^|M His firm -shut hand, the favorite plaything in it 
wwK^I And tell me, mothers, was't not hard to lose 
S^^^ And miss him from my side — 

Y^ My little boy that died ? 

How many another boy as dear and charming. 
His father's hope, his mother's one delight. 
Slips through strange sickness, all fear disarming. 
And lives a long, long life in parents' sight ! 
Mine was so short a pride ! 
And then my poor boy died ? 

I see him rocking on his wooden charger ; 

I hear him pattering thiough the house all day ; 
I watch his great blue eyes grow large and larger. 
Listening to stories, whether grave or gay, 
Told at the bright fireside — 
So dark now, since he died. 

But yet I often think my boy is living. 
As living as my other children are ; 
When good-night kisses I all around am giving, 
I keep one for him, though he is so far. 
Can a mere grave divide 
Me from him, though he died ? 

280 



MY LITTLE BOY THAT DIED. 



281 



So, while I come and plant it o'er with daisies, 

(Nothing but childish daisies, all year round), 
Continually God's hand the curtain raises, 
And I can hear his merry voice's sound 
And feel him at my side — 
My little boy that died. 

— By the author of ^^J&hn Halifax^ Gentleman, 




THE BUEIAL OF MOSES. 



MRS. C. F. ALEXANDER. 




Y Nebo's lonely mountain, 

On this side Jordan's wave, 
In a vale in tlie land of Moab, 

There lies a lonely grave. 
And no man knows that sepulchre, 
And no man saw it e'er, 
For the angels of God upturned the sod. 
And laid the dead man there. 

That was the grandest funeral 

That ever passed on earth ; 
But no man heard the trampling, 

Or saw the train go forth: 
Noiselessly as the daylight 

Comes back when night is done, 
And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 

Grows into the great sun, 

Noiselessly as the spring-time 
Her crown of verdure weaves, 

And all the trees on all the hills 
Opened their thousand leaves j 



*rHE BUBIAL OF MOSES. 283 

So without sound of music 

Or voice of them that wept, 
Silently down from the mountain's crown 

The great procession swept. 

Perchance the bald old eaofle, 

On gray Beth-Peor's height, 
Out of his lonely eyry 

Looked on the wondrous sight ; 
Perchance the lion, stalking, 

Still shuns that hallowed spot, 
For beast and bird have seen and heard 

That which man knoweth not. 

But when the warrior dieth, 

His comrades in the war, 
With arms reversed and muffled drum, 

Follow the funeral car, 
They show the banners taken, 

They tell his battles won, 
And after him lead his masterless steed^ 

While peals the minute-gun. 

Amid the noblest of the land 

We lay the sage to rest, 
And give the bard an honored place 

With costly marble drest, 
In the great minster transept 

Where lights like glories fall, 
And the organ rings and the sweet choir sings 

Along the emblazoned wall. 



284 GEMS OF POETRY. 

This was the truest warrior 

That ever buckled sword, 
This the most gifted poet 

That ever breathed a word; 
And never earth's philosopher 

Traced with his golden pen, 
On the deathless page, truths half so sage 

As he wrote down for men. 

And had he not high honor, — 

The hillside for a pall 
To lie in state while angels wait 

With stars for tapers tall, 
And the dark rock- pine like tossing plumes 

Over his bier to wave, 
And God's own hand, in that lonely land, 

To lay him in the grave ? 

In this strange grave without a name 

Whence his uncoffined clay 
Shall break again, O wondrous thought, 

Before the Judgment- day, 
And stand with glory wrapt around 

On the hills he never trod. 
And speak of the strife that won our life 

With the Incarnate Son of God. 

O lonely grave in Moab's land ! 

O dark Beth-Peor's hill ! 
Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 

And teach them to be still. 
God hath His mysteries of grace, 

Ways that we cannot tell; 
He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep 

Of him He loved so well. 



^^^S^$^^ 




THE OLD CANOE. 



EMILY R. PAGE. 




HEBE the rocks are gray and the shore is steep^ 
And the waters below look dark and deep, 
Where the rugged pine in its lonely pride 
Leans gloomily over the murky tide; 
Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank, 
And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank; 
Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through, 
There lies at its mooring the old canoe. 



The useless paddles are idly dropped, 

Like a sea-bird's wings that the storm has lopped, 

And crossed on the railing, one o'er one. 

Like folded hands when the work is done ; 

While .busily back and forth between. 

The spider stretches his silvery screen, 

And the solemn owl, with his dull "too-hoo," 

Settled down on the side of the old canoe. 



The stern half sunk in the slimy wave, 

Kots slowly away in its living grave. 

And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay, 

Hiding its moldering dust away — 

Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower, 

Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower ; 

While many a blossom c»f loveliest hue 

Springs up o'er the steri. of the old canoe. 



286 THE OLD CANOE. 

The currentless waters are dead and still — 
But the light wind plays with the boat at will, 
And lazily in and out again, 
It floats the length of the rusty chain, 
Like the weary march of the hands of time, 
That meet and part at the noontide chime, 
And the shore is kissed at each turn anew, 
By the dripping bow of the old canoe. 

Oh, many a time, with a careless hand, 
I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand. 
And paddled it down where the stream runs thick, 
Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are thick. 
And laughed as I leaned o'er the rocking side — 
And looked below in the broken tide — 
To see that the faces and boats were two, 
That were mirrored back from the old canoe. 

But, now, as I lean o'er the crumbling side, 

And look below in the sluggish tide. 

The face that I see is graver grown. 

And the laugh that I "hear has a soberer tone, 

And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings 

Have grown familiar with sterner things ; 

But I love to think of the hours that sped. 

As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed, 

Ere the blossoms waved, or the green grass grew 

O'er the moldering stem of the old canoe. 





ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 



GEN. W. H. LYTLE. 




AM dying, Egypt, dying, 

Ebbs the crimson life- tide fast, 
And the dark Plutonian shadows 

Gather on the evening blast. 
Let thine arm, O queen, support me. 

Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear,, 
Harken to the great heart secrets. 

Thou, and thou alone must hear. 



Though my scarred and veteran legions 

Bear their eagles high no more, 
And my wrecked and scattered galleys 

Strew dark Actium's fatal shore; 
Though no glittering guards surround me. 

Prompt to do their master's will, 
I must perish like a Koman, 

Die the great triumvir still. 

Let not Caesar's servile minions 

Mock the lion thus laid low; 
'Twas no foeman's hand that slew him^ 

'Twas his own that struck the blow; 
Here, then, pillowed; on thy bosom, 

28T 



288 GEMS OF POETHY. 

Ere his star fades quite away, 
Him who drunk with thy caresses, 
Madly flung a world away. 

; Should the base, plebeian rabble 

Dare assail my fame at Rome, 
Where the noble spouse, Octavia, 

Weeps within her widowed home, 
Seek her, say the»gods have told me, 

Altars, augurs, circling wings. 
That her blood with mine commingled. 

Yet shall mount the throne of kings. 

And for thee, star-eyed Egyptian! 

Glorious Sorceress of the Nile, 
Light the path to Stygian horrors 

With the splendors of thy smile. 
Give the Caesar crowns and arches, 

Let his brow the laurel twine, 
I can scorn the Senate's triumphs, 

Triumphing in love like thine. 

1 am dying, Egypt, dying. 

Hark! the insulting foeman's cry. 
They are coming — quick, my falchion! 

Let me front them ere I die. 
Ah! no more amid the battle 

Shall my heart exulting swell, 
Isis and Osiris guard thee, 

Cleopatra, Rome, farewell! 




FEOM " THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 



J. THOMSON. 




HIS globe pourtray'd the race of learned men, 
Still at their books, and turning o'er the page, 
Backwards and forwards; oft they snatch the 

pen, 
As if inspired, and in a Thespian rage; 
Then write, and blot, as would your ruth en- 
gage; 
Why, authors, all this scrawl and scribbling sore ? 
To lose the present, gain the future age. 
Praised to be when you can hear no more. 
And much enrich' d with fame, when useless worldly store. 



Their only labour was to kill the time 

(And labour dire it is, and weary woe;) 

They sit, and loll; turn o'er some idle rhyme; 

Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go, 

Or saunter forth, with tottering step and slow : 

This soon too rude an exercise they find; 

Straight on the couch their limbs again they throw. 

Where hours and hours they sighing lie reclined, 

And court the vapoury god, soft breathing in the wind. 



290 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



I care not, Fortune, what you me deny. 
You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace; 
You cannot shut the windows of the sky, 
Throuo^h which Aurora shows her bricrhtenino- face; 
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
The woods and lawns, by living stream at eve. 
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, 
And I their toys to the great children leave : 
Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave. 





THE EVENING CLOUD. 



JOHN WILSON. 




CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, 
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow: 
Long had I watched the glory moving on 
O'er the still radiance of the lake below. 
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow ! 
Even in the very motion there was rest; 
While every breath of eve that chanced to b'o.v 
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. 
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul. 
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given; 
And by the breath of mercy made to roll 
Right onwards to the golden gates of heaven, 
Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies, 
And tells to man his glorious destinies. 




291 



%^£/^ 



THY VOICE. 



p. B. MARSTON. 




HY voice is like the sea's voice, when it makes 
A melancholy music on the beach. 
Thy voice is in the winds, when birds beseech 
The twilight time with song. The stream that 

takes 
Its way from out the hill by flowery brakes 
Has in its tones 'the sweetness of thy speech. 
At night when all is still, and faint sounds reach 
The ear of one who having slept awakes 
Full of his dream, thy voice floats through the night, 
In music sad as Autumn winds that blow 

'Mid yellowing woods in the sun's waning light, 
Compassionate, persistent, clear, and low. 

And when the world is fading out of sight, 
Thy voice shall whisper peace and bid me go. 



-^^"^"^^; 

:^:^i^'^^^^ 







292 



ODE TO EVENING, 



W. COLLINS. 




E AUGHT of oateu stop or pastoral song 
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, 
Like thy own solemn springs, 
Thy springs, and dying gales, — 

O nymph reserved, while now the bright- haired 
♦ Sun 

Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, 
With braid ethereal wove, 
O'er hang his wavy bed: 

Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat. 
With short, shrill shriek flits on leathern wing; 

Or where the beetle winds 

His small but sullen horn, 

As oft he rises midst the twilight path. 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum; 

Now teach me, maid composed. 

To breathe some softened strain. 

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale. 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit; 

293 



294 GEMS OF POETRY. 

As, musing slow, I hail 
Thy genial, loved return! 

For when thy folding- star arising shows 
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp, 

The fragrant Hours, and Elves 

Who slept in buds the day. 

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge. 
And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, 

The pensive Pleasures sweet, 

Prepare thy shadowy car. 

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; 
Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells. 

Whose walls more awful nod 

By thy religious gleams. 

Or, if chill, blustering winds, or driving rain. 
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut 

That from the mountain's side 

Views wilds, and swelling floods, 

And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires; 
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all 

Thy dewy fingers draw 

The gradual, dusky vail. 

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, , 
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! 

While Summer loves to sport 

Beneath thy lingering light; 

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; 
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air. 



ODE TO EVENING. 



295 



Affrights tliy shrinking train, 
And rudely rends thy robes,— • 

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, 

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smihng Peace, 

Thy gentlest influence own. 

And love thy favorite name ! 







ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PEAYEK 



MRS. SOPHIA P. SNOW. 




WAS the eve before Christmas; "Goodnight" 

had been said, 
And Annie and Wilhe had crept into bed; 
There were tears on their pillows, and tears in 

their eyes, 
And each little bosom was heavy with sighs — 
For to-night their stern father's command had 
been given 
That they should retire precisely at seven, 
Instead of at eight, for they troubled him more 
With their questions unheard of than ever before. 
He had told them he thought this delusion a sin, 
No such being as Santa Clans ever had been, 
And he hoped after this he should never more hear 
How he scrambled down chimneys with presents each year; 
And this was the reason that two little heads 
So restlessly tossed on their soft, downy beds. 

Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten. 
Not a word had been spoken by either till then, 
When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep 
And whispered: " Dear Annie, is you fast asleep?" 



296 



ANNIE AND WILLIe's PRAYER. 297 

" Why, no, brother Willie," a sweet voice replies, 

" I've tried it in vain, but I can't shut my eyes, 

For somehow it makes me sorry because 

Dear papa has said there is no Santa Glaus. 

Now we know that there is, and it can't be denied, 

For he came every year before mamma died. 

But then I've been thinking that she used to pray. 

And God would hear everything mamma would say. 

And perhaps she asked Him to send Santa Glaus here, 

With the sacks full of presents he brought every year." 

" Well, why tant we pay dest as mamma did then, 

And ask him to send us some presents aden?" 

" I've been thinking so, too," and without a word more 

Four little feet bounded out on the floor. 

And four little knees the soft carpet pressed, 

And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast. 

"Now, Willie, you know we must firmly beheve, 

That the presents we ask for we're sure to receive; 

You must wait just as still till I say the Amen, 

And by that you will know that your turn has come then. 

"Dear Jesus look down on my brother and me 

And grant us the favor we're asking of Thee; 

I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and ring, 

And a beautiful work-box that shuts with a spring. 

Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see 

That Santa Glaus loves us far better than he; 

Don't let him get angry and fretful again 

At dear brother Willie and Annie— Amen!" 

"Please, Desus, 'et Santa Glaus tum down to-night 
And bring us some presents before it is light; 
I want he would dive me a nice 'ittle sled, 
With bright shining yunners and all painted yed; 



298 GEMS OF POETBY. 

A box fiill of tandy, a book and a toy^ 
Amen— and den, Desus, I'll be a dood boy." 

Their prayers being ended they raised up their heads. 
And with hearts light and cheerful again sought their beds. 
They were soon lost in slumber, both peaceful and deep, 
And with fairies in di-eam-land were roaming in sleep. 

Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck ten. 
Ere the father had thought of his children again. 
He seems now to hear Annie's half -suppressed sighs. 
And see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes. 
"I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said, 
"And should not have sent them so early to bed: 
But then I was troubled, my feelings found vent. 
For bank stock to-day has gone down ten per cent. 
But, of coui'se, they've forgotten their troubles ere this. 
And that I denied them the thrice asked -for kiss. 
But just to make sure I'll steal iip to the door. 
For I never spoke harsh to my darlings before." 

So saying, he softly ascended the stairs. 
And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers ; 
His Annie's " Bless papa," draws forth the big tears, 
And Willie's grave promise falls sweet on his ears. 
"Strange! Strange! I'd forgotten," he said, with a sigh, 
" How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nigh. 
"I'll atone for my harshness,'' he inwardly said, 
"By answering their prayers ere I sleep in my bed;" 
Then he turned to the stair and softly went down, 
Threw off velvet-slippers and silk dressing-gown. 
Donned hat, coat and boots, and was out in the street, 
A millionaire facing the cold, driving sleet. 
Nor stopped he until he had bought everything. 



ANNIE AND WILLIe's PRAYER. 299 

From the box full o' candy to the tiny gold ring. 

Indeed, he kept adding so much to his store 

That the various presents outnumbered a score. 

Then homeward he turned with his holiday load, 

And with Aunt Mary's help in the nursery 'twas stowed; 

Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine tree. 

By the side of a table spread out for her tea; 

A work-box well filled in the center was laid, 

And on it the ring for which Annie had prayed; 

A soldier in uniform stood by a sled, 

With bright, shining runners, and all painted red. 

There were balls, clogs and horses, all pleasing to see, 

And lairds of all colors were perched in the trees, 

While Santa Glaus laughing, stood up in the top, 

As if getting ready more presents to di'op. 

And as the good father the picture surveyed 

He thought for his trouble he had amply been paid. 

And he said to himself, as he brushed off a tear; 

" I'm happier to-night than I've been for a year. 

I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before; 

What care I if bank stock falls ten per cent, more ? 

Hereafter I'll make it a rule, I believe. 

To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas eve." 

So thinking, he softly extinguished the light. 

And tripped down stairs to retire for the night. 

As soon as the beams of the brio^ht mornins^ sun 
Put the darkness to flight, and the stars one by one, 
Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide. 
And at the same moment the presents espied. 
Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound, 
And the very giftrf prayed for were all of them found. 
They laughed and they cried in their innocent glee, 



300 " GEMS OF POETRY. 

And shouted for papa to come quick and see 
What presents old Santa Claus brought in the night — 
Just the things that they wanted — and left before light, 
And now added Annie, in a voice soft and low ; 
" You'll believe there's a Santa Claus, papa, I know " — 
While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee, 
Determined no secret between them should be, 
And told in soft whispers how Annie had said 
That their dear, blessed mamma, so long ago dead. 
Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her chair. 
And that God up in Heaven had answered her prayer. 
''Then we dot up and prayed dest as well as we tood, 
AndDod answered our prayers — now wasn't He dood?" 
" I should say that He was if He sent you all these, 
And knew just what presents my children would please, 
(Well, well, let him think soothe dear little elf, 
'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself.") 

Blind father, who caused your stern heart to relent. 
And the hasty words spoken so soon to repent ? 
'Twas the Being who bade you steal softly up stairs, 
And made you His agent to answer their prayers. 





WITH THE STKEAM. 




RIFTING along the river, all gleaming 
With sun-jewels, that sparkled and played on 
its breast, 
Down thro' the golden-cupped lillies, and dream- 
ing 
Of love, as they floated on into the West; 

On past the banks, where the tall grasses, waving 
Kist the cool stream as they bended them low; 
No sound to be heard in the deep stillness, saving 
The water's monotonous, musical flow; 

Past where the swan mid the sedges was sleeping. 
Her head 'neatL her feathers, unruffled and white, 

And where thro' the brushwood the rabbit was peeping, 
As if make to sure there was no one in sight ; 

Past where the deep blue forget-me-nots flooded 

The space where they bloomed with a heavenly glow, 

Where daffodils stoopt from the banks which they 
studded. 
Reflecting themselves in the water below. 

Unconscious the two in the boat as it drifted 

Of everything round them, and silent was each ; 

For the youth, as he gazed in the sweet eyes uplifted, 
Discoursed in a language unfettered by speech! 



303 



RAIN ON THE ROOF. 



COATES KINNEY. 




HEN the humid shadows hover over all the 
starry spheres, 

And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in 
rainy tears, 

What a bliss to press the pillow of a cottage- 
chamber bed, 
And to listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead! 

Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart; 
And a thousand dreamy fancies into busy being start. 
And a thousand recollections weave their air-threads into woof, 
As I listen to the patter of the rain upon the roof. 

Now in memory comes my mother, as she used, in years 

agone. 
To regard the darling dreamers ere she left them till the 

dawn: 
So I see her leaning o'er me, as I list to this refrain 
Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain. 

Then my little seraph sister, with the wings and waving hair, 
And her star-eyed cherub brother — a serene angelic pair — 



RAIN ON THE ROOF. 



305 



Glide around my wakeful pillow, witli their praise or mild 

reproof, 
As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof. 

And another comes, to thrill me with her eyes' delicious blue; 
And I mind not, musing on her, that her heart was all 

untrue : 
I remember but to love her with a passion kin to pain, 
And my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain. 

Art hath naught of tone or cadence that can work with such 

a spell 
In the soul's mysterious fountains, whence the tears of 

rapture well. 
As that melody of nature, that subdued, subduing strain, 
Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain. 







THERE BE NONE OF BEAUTY'S DAUGHTERS. 



BYRON. 



There be none of beauty's daughters 

With a magic like thee; 
And Hke music on the waters 
Is thy sweet voice to me: 
When, as if its sounds were causing 
The charmed ocean's pausing, • 
The waves lie still and gleaming. 
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming. 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep; 

Whose breast is gently heaving, 
As an infant's asleep: 

So the spirit bows before thee, 

To listen and adore thee; 

With a full but soft emotion, 

Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 




THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 



A. POPE. 



Vital spark of heavenly flame, 
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame, 
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, 
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! 
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, 
And let me languish into life. 

Hark! they whisper: angels say, 
"Sister spirit, come away!" 
What is this absorbs me quite. 
Steals my senses, shuts my sight. 
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath. 
Tell me, my soul, can this be death? 

The world recedes : it disappears : 
Heaven opens on my eyes : my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring. 
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! 
O G rave, where is thy victory ? 

O Death, where is thy sting? 



BISHOP KEN'S DOXOLOGY. 



Thomas Ken was born in England, in 1637, and died there in 
1710. His morning hymn, which ends with this doxology, was 
written in 1697, at Oxford, for the students in Winchester Col- 
lege. Mr. H. Butterworth, in his " Story of the Hymns," says 
this unparalleled doxology " is suited to all religious occasions, 
to all Christian denominations, to all times, places, and conditions 
of men, and has been translated into all civilized tongues, and 
adopted by the church universal. Written more than two hun- 
dred years ago, it has become the grandest tone in the anthem 
of earth's voices continually rising to heaven. As England's 
drum-call follows the sun, so the tongues that take up this grate- 
ful ascription of praise are never silent, but incessantly encircle 
the earth with their melody." The stanza has been somewhat 
changed by the hymn-tinkers, as the original reads: 

"Praise God, from whom all blessings flow: 
Praise Him, all creatures here below; 
Praise Him above, ye angelic host, • 

Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost." 





h£/^ 



TO THE ORGAN. 



c. p. w. 



Utterer of many thoughts which else were still, 

How oft have I 

Evoked thy harmony, 
The voiceless void in my poor heart to fill. 

Sweet solace of my loneliness or grief, 

It is to thee 

And thy grand minstrelsy 
That I resort for pleasure or relief. 

Thy diapason tones' deep, distant swell. 

Like ocean's roar, 

Or songs from sea- shell's core, 
Waken fine chords deep hid in fancy's cell. 

Oft-times at even, when my mind is fraught 

With visions high, 

Or some strange fantasy. 
Thy glowing tones give utterance to my thought. 

Devotion gains from thee a warmer tone, . 

Thine undersong 

Carries the soul along, 
Until it seems to reach the Eternal Throne. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 



BYRON. 



She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes ; 

Thus mellow' d to that tender light 
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impair' d the nameless grace, 

Which waves in every raven tress. 
Or softly lightens o'er her face; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express, 
How pure, how dear their dwelling place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent! 



310 




NEVER DESPAIR. 



W. C. RICHARDS. 




HIS motto I give to the young and the old, 
More precious by far than a treasure of gold; 
'Twill prove to its owner a talisman rare, 
More potent than magic— 'tis Never Despair! 

No, never despair, whatsoe'er be thy lot. 
If Fortune's gay sunshine illumine it not; 
Mid its gloom, and despite its dark burden of care, 
If thou canst not be cheerful, yet, Never Despair! 

Oh! what if the sailor a coward should be. 
When the tempest comes down, in its wrath on the sea, 
And the mad billows leap, like wild beasts from their lair 
To make him their prey, if he yield to Despair? 

But see him amid the fierce strife of the waves, 
When around his frail vessel the storm demon raves; 
How he rouses his soul up to do and to dare! 
And, while there is life left, will Never Despair! 

Thou, too, art a sailor, and Time is the sea, 
And life the frail vessel that upholdeth thee; 
Fierce storms of misfortune will fall to thy share, 
But, like the bold mariner, Never Despair! 

311 



312 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



Let not the wild tempest thy spirit affright, 
Shrink not from the storm, tho' it come in its might; 
Be watchful, be ready, for shipwreck prepare. 
Keep an eye on the life-boat, and Never Despair. 





TO THE EVENING WIND. 



W. C. BRYANT. 



["The TalismaD has contained some very beautiful poetry, 
each year of its publication; but this,— we had almost said it is the 
sweetest thing in the language. Not in any one of the Souvenirs, 
either English or American, has there ever appeared a page of 
such pure, deep, finished poetry. It has all the characteristics of 
Bryant's style — his chaste elegance, both in thought and expres- 
sion,— ornament enough, but not in profusion or display, -imagery 
that is natural, appropriate, and, in this instance, peculiarly sooth- 
ing,— select and melodious language,— harmony in the flow of the 
stanza, -gentleness of feeling, and richness of philosophy." — Geo. 
B. Cheever's Poets of America, p. 265. \ 

"TiPIIlIT that breathest through my lattice, thou 
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day, 
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow; 

Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, 
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, 
Roughening their crests, and scattering high 
their spray, 
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee 
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea! 

Nor I alone — a thousand bosoms round 
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; 
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 

313 




314 GEMS OF POETRY. 

Livelier, at coming of tlie wind of night; 
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound, 

Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. 
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth, 
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth! 

Go, rock the littlewood-bird in his nest. 

Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse 

The wide old wood from his majestic rest. 
Summoning from the innumerable boughs 

The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast; 
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows 

The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass. 

And 'twixt the o'er- shadowing branches and the grass. 

The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, 

And dry the moistened curls that overspread 

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; 

And they who stand about the sick man's bed, 
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep. 

And softly 'f)art his curtains to allow 

Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 

Go — but the circle of eternal change. 
That is the life of nature, shall restore, 

With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, 
Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more; 

Sweet odors in the sea- air, sweet and strange, 
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore; 

And, listening to the murmur, he shall deem 

Be hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 




%£/^ 



HYMN OF NATURE. 



W. O. B. PEABODY. 




OD of the earth's extended plains! 

The dark green fields contented lie : 
The mountains rise like holy towers, 

Where man might commune with the sky: 
The tall cliff challenges the storm 

That lowers upon the vale below, 
Where shaded fountains send their streams, 

With joyous music in their flow. 



God of the dark and heavy deep ! 

The waves lie sleeping on the sands, 
Till the fierce trumpet of the storm 

Have summoned up their thundering bands ; 
Then the white sails are dashed like foam, 

Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, 
Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale 

Serenely breathes, Depart in peace. 



God of the forest's solemn shade! 

The grandeur of the lonely tree, 
That wrestles singly with the gale, 

Lifts up admiring eyes to thee •, 



315 



816 GEMS OF rcETpy 

But more majestic far they staud, 

When, side by side, their ranks tbey form, 

To wave on high their plumes of green, 
And fight their battles with the storm. 

God of the light and viewless air! 

Where summer breezes sweetly flow, 
Or, gathering in their angry might, 

The fierce and wintry tempests blow; 
All — from the evening's plaintive sigh, 

That hardly lifts the drooping flower. 
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry — 

Breathe forth the language of thy power. 

God of the fair and open sky! 

How gloriously above us springs 
The tented dome, of heavenly blue. 

Suspended on the rainbow's rings! 
Each brilliant star, that sparkles through. 

Each gilded cloud, that wanders free 
In evening's purple radiance, gives 

The beauty of its praise to thee. 

God of the rolling orbs above! 

Thy name is written clearly bright 
In the warm day's unvarying blaze. 

Or evening's golden shower of light. 
For every fire that fronts the sun. 

And every spark that walks alone 
Around the utmost verge of heaven. 

Were kindled at thy burning throne. 

God of the world I the hour must come, 
And nature's self to dust return; 



HYMN OF NATURE. — WHAT IS NOBLE? 317 

Her crumbling altars must decay; 

Her incense fires shall cease to burn; 
But still her grand and lovely scenes 

Have made man's warmest praises flow; 
For hearts grow holier as they trace 

The beauty of the world below. 



WHAT IS NOBLE. 



C. SWAIN. 



What is noble? 'Tis the finer 

Portion of our Mind and Heart; 
Linked to something still diviner 

Than mere language can impart; 
Ever prompting — ever seeing 

Some improvement yet to plan; 
To uplift our fellow being, 

And, like man, to feel for Man! 




YOU REMEMBER IT— DON'T YOU? 



THOMAS H. BAYLEY. 

You remember the time when I first sought your home, 
When a smile, not a word, was the summons to come? 
When you called me a friend, till you found with surprise 
That our frendship turned out to be love in disguise. 

You remember it, — don't you? 

You will think ot it, — won't you? 
Yes, yes, of this the remembrance will last, 
L" ng after the present fades into the past. 

You remember the grief that grew lighter when shared? 
With the bliss you remember, could aught be compared? 
You remember how fond was my earliest vow ? 
Not fonder than that v/hich I breathe to thee now. 

You remember it, — don't you ? 

You will think of it, — won't you? 
Yes, yes, of all this the remembrance will last, 
Long after the present fades into the past. 




318 



REVENGE OF INJURIES. 



LADY ELIZABETH CAREW. 




HE fairest action of oar human life 
Is scorning to revenge an injury; 
For who forgives without a further strife, 

His adversary's heart to hitn doth tie; 
And 'tis a firmer conquest truly said, 
To win the heart, than overthrow the head. 

If we a worthy enemy do find, 

To yield to worth it must be nobly done; 

But, if of baser metal be his mind, 

In base revenge there is no honor won. 

Who would a worthy courage overthrow ? 

And who would wrestle with a worthless f oe ? 

We say our hearts are great, andean not yield; 

Because they can not yield, it proves them poor: 
Great hearts are tasked beyond their power, but seld; 

The weakest lion will the loudest roar; 
Truth's school for certain did this same allow ; 
High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow. 

A noble heart doth teach a virtuous scorn:— 
To scorn to owe a duty over long; 

319 



320 GEMS OF POETRY. 

To scorn to be for benefits forborne; 

To scorn to lie; to scorn to do a wrong; 
To scorn to bear an injury in mind; 
To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to bind. 

But if for wrongs we needs revenge must have, 
Then be our vengeance of the noblest kind. 

Do we his body from our fury save, 

And let our hate prevail against his mind ? 

What can 'gainst him a greater vengeance be, 

Than make his foe more worthy far than he ? 





THE OLD COTTAGE CLOCK. 




H ! the old clock of the household stock 

Was the brightest thing and the neatest; 
Its hands, though old, had a touch of gold, 

And its chime rang still the sweetest. 
'T was a monitor, too, though its words were few, 

Yet they lived through nations altered ; 
And its voice, still strong, warned old and young 
When the voice of friendship faltered ; 
"Tick, tick," it said — "quick, quick to bed — 

For nine I've given warning ; 
Up, up and go, or else you know, 
• You'll never rise soon in the morning." 

A friendly voice was that old, old clock, 

As it stood in the corner smiling, 
And blessed the time, with a merry chime, 

The Wintry hours beguiling ; 
But a cross old voice was that tiresome clock, 

As it called at daybreak boldly, 
When the dawn looked gray on the misty way, 

And the early air blew coldly ; 
<< Tick, tick," it said — "quick, out of bed — 

For five I've given warning ; 
You'll never have health, you'll never get wealth. 

Unless you're up soon in the morning." 



321 



322 THE OLD COTTAGE CLOCK. 

Still hourly the sound goes round and round, 

With a tone that ceases never ; 
While tears are shed for the bright days fled, 

And the old friends lost forever ; 
• Its heart beats on, though hearts are gone 

That warmer beat and younger ; 
Its hands still move, though hands we love 

Are clasped on earth no longer ! 
" Tick, tick," it said — "to the churchyard bed — 

The grave hath given warning — 
Up, up and rise, and look to the skies, 

And prepare for a heavenly morning." 

— Christian Intelligencer, 





A LITTLE WOED. 



A little word in kindness spoken, 

A motion or a tear, 
Has oiten healed the heart that's broken! 

And made a friend sincere. 

A word — a look — has crushed to earth, 

Full many a budding flower, 
Which had a smile but owned its birth, 

Would bless life's darkest hour. 

Then deem it not an idle thing, 

A pleasant word to speak; 
The face you wear, the thoughts you bring, 

A heart may heal or break. 




I SAW THEE WEEP. 



GEOKGE G. BYRON. 



I saw thee weep — the big bright tear 

Came o'er that eye of bkie: 
And then methought it did appear 

A violet dropping dew: 
I saw thee smile — the sapphire's blazfe 

Beside thee ceased to shine; 
It could not match the living rays 

That fill'd that glance of thine. 

As clouds from yonder sun receive 

A deep and mellow dye, 
Which scarce the shade of coming eve 

Can banish from the sky, 
Those smiles unto the moodiest mind 

Their own pure joy impart; 
Their sunshine leaves a glow behind, 

That lightens o'er the heart. 




324 




NAPOLEON AT REST. 



J. PIERPONT. 




IS falchion flashed along the Nile, 

His host he led through Alpine snows; 
O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while, 
His eagle-flag nnrolled-and froze! 

Here sleeps he now, alone! — not one, 
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave, 
Bends o'er his dust; nor wife nor son 
Has ever seen or sought his grave. 

Behind the sea-girt rock, the star 

That led him on from crown to crown 

Has. sunk, and nations from afar 
Gazed as it faded and went down. 



High is his tomb: the ocean flood, 
Far, far below, by storms is curled — 

As round him heaved, while high he stood, 
A stormy and unstable world. 

Alone he sleeps: the mountain cloud, 

That night hangs round him, and the breath 



326 GEMS OF POETRY. 

Of morning scatters, is the shroud 

That wraps the conqueror's clay in death. 

Pause here! The far off world at last 

Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones, 

And to the earth its miters cast, 

Lies powerless now beneath these stones. 

Hark! Comes there from the pyramids, 
And from Siberian wastes of snow, 

And Europe's hills, a voice that bids 

The world be awed to mourn him? — No! 

The only, the perpetual dirge, 

That's heard here is the sea-bird's cry — 

The mournful murmur of the surge. 

The clouds' deep voice, the wind's low sigh. 





AND THOU ART DEAD. 



GEORGE GORDON (lORd) BYRON. 




ND thou art dead, as young and fair, 
As aught of mortal birth; 
And form so soft, and charms so rare, 

Too soon return' d to Earth! 
Though Earth received them in her beil, 
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 
In carelessness or mirth. 
There is an eye which could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look. 

I will not ask where thou liest low, 

Nor gaze upon the spot; 
There flowers or weeds at will may grow, 

So I behold them not: 
It is enough for me to prove 
That what I loved, and long must love, 

Like common earth can rot; 
To me there needs no stone to tell, 
'Tis nothing that I loved so well. 

Yet did I love thee to the last 

As fervently as thou, 
Who didst not change through all the past, 

327 



328 GEMS OF POETRY. 

And canst not alter now. 
The love where Death has set his seal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 

Nor falsehood disavow : 
And, what were worse, thou cansif not see 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 

The better days of life were ours ; 

The worst can be but mine : 
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, 

Shall never more be thine. 
The silence of that dreamless sleep 
I envy now too much to weep; 

Nor need I to repine 
That all those charms have pass'd away, 
I might have watch' d through long decay. 

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 

Must fall the earliest prey; 
Though by no hand untimely snatch' d, 

The leaves must drop away: 
And yet it were a greater grief 
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 

Than see it pluck' d to day; 
Since earthly eye but ill but bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair, 

I know not if I could have borne 

To see thy beauties fade; 
The night that follow' d such a morn 

Had worn a deeper shade: 
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd, 
And thou wert lovely to the last: 

Extinguish' d, not decay 'd; 



AND THOU ART DEAD. 329 



As stars that shoot along the sky 
Shine brightest as they fall from high. 

As once I wept, if I could weep, 
My tears might well be shed, 
To think I was not near to keep 

One vigil o'er thy bed; 
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face. 
To fold thee in a faint embrace. 

Uphold thy drooping head; 
And show that love, however vain, 
Nor thou nor I can feel again. 

Yet how much less it were to gain, 

Though thou hast left me free. 
The loveliest things that still remain. 

Than thus remember thee! 
The all of thine that cannot die 
Through dark and dread Eternity 

Returns again to me. 
And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught, except its living years. 




ADVICE TO A YOUNG MAN. 



BEN JON SON. 



What would I have yon do? I'll tell yon, kiDsman; 
Learn to be wise, and practice how to thrive; 
That would I have you do ; and not to spend 
Your coin on every bauble that you fancy, 
Or every foolish brain that humors you. 

9|v TF "51$ -^ ■5|r ^ 

I'd have you sober, and contain yourself; 

Not that yoiu' sail be bigger than your boat; 

But moderate your expenses now, (at first,) 

As you may keep the same proportion still. 

Nor stand so much on your gentility. 

Which is an airy, and mere borrowed thing. 

From dead men's dust and bones; and none of yours, 

Except you make or hold it. 




-sr 




\£r^ 



SATUEDAY AFTERNOON. 



N. P. WILLIS. 




LOVE to look on a scene like this, 

Of wild and careless play, 
And persuade myself that I am not old, 

And my locks are not yet gray; 
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, 

And it makes his pulses fly, 
To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 
And the light of a pleasant eye. 

I have walked the world for four score years; 

And they say that I am old, 
And my heart is ripe for the reaper. Death, 

And my years are well nigh told. 
It is very true; it is very true; 

I'm old, and "I 'bide my time;" 
But my heart will leap at a scene like this, 

And I half renew my prime. 

Play on, play on; I am with you there, 

In the midst of your meny ring; 
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, 

And the rush of the breathless swing. 

331 



332 GEMS OF POETRY. 

I hide with you in the fragrant hay, 
And I* whoop the smothered call, 

And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 
And I care not for the fall. 

I am willing to die when my time shall come, 

And I shall be glad to go; 
For the world, at best, is a weary place. 

And my pulse is getting low: 
But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 

In treading its gloomy way ; 
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness. 

To see the young so gay. 





THE ALPINE FLOWERS. 



MRS. L. H. SIGOUENEY. 



[" This piece is, perhaps, the finest of Mrs. Sigonrney's poetry. 
It is in some respects so sublime, that it forcibly reminds us of 
Coleridge's Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouny."— 
George B. Cheever's Poets of Ainerica, p. 309.] 

jEEK dwellers mid yon terror-stricken cliffs! 
With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips, 
Whence are ye? — Did some white-winged mes- 
senger 
On Mercy's missions trust your timid germ 
To the cold cradle of eternal snows ? 
Or, breathing on the callous icicles. 
Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye? — 
— Tree nor shrub 
Dare that drear atmosphere; no polar pine 
Uprears a veteran front; yet there j)/^ stand, 
Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribbed ice, 
And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him 
Who bids you bloom unblanched amid the waste 
Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils 
O'er slippery steeps, or trembling, treads the verge 
Of yawning gulfs, o'er which the headlong plunge 
Is to eternity, looks shuddering up, 
And marks ye in your placid loveliness — 




333 



334 GEMS OF POETRY. 

Fearless, yet frail — and, clasping his chill hands, 
Blesses your pencilled beauty. 'Mid the pomp 
Of mountain summits rushing on the sky. 
And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe. 
He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, 
Inhales your spirit from the frost-winged gale, 
And freer dreams o^ heaven. 





EVENING. 



LORD BYRON. 



It is the hour when from the boughs 

The nightingale's high note is heard; 
It is the hour when lovers' vows 

Seem sweet in every whisper' d word; 
And gentle winds, and waters near, 
Make music to the lonely ear. 
Each flower the dews have lightly wet. 
And in the sky the stars are met, 
And on the wave is deeper blue, 
And on the leaf a browner hue. 
And in the heaven that clear obscure. 
So s- ftly dark, and darkly pure, 
Which follows the decline of day, 
As twilight melts beneath the moon away. 




BKOWN LAEK AND BLACKBIKD. 

O brown lark, loving cloud-land best, 

And sun-smit seas of sky, 
Tliee doth a musical unrest 
Drive to rise upward from thy nest 
Far fathoms high. 




O fluid-fluting blackbird, keep 

The midnio-ht of thy wing 
Close to my home, where leaves grow deep, 
Since where two lovers lie asleep, 
Thou lov'st to sing. 



336 



388 



GEMS OF POETRY. 





A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 



E. H. SEARS. 




ALM on the listening ear of night 
Come heaven's melodious strains, 
Where wild Judea stretches far 
Her silver-mantled plains. 

Celestial choirs from courts above 

Shed sacred glories there ; 
And angels, with their sparkling lyres, 

Make music on the air. 



The answering hills of Palestine 

Send back a glad reply. 
And greet from all their holy hights 

The Dayspring from on high. 



O'er the blue depths of Galilee 
There comes a holier calm; 

And Sharon waves in solemn praise 
Her silent groves of palm. 

"Glory to God! " the sounding skies 
Loud with their anthems ring; 

339 



340 GEMS OF POETRY. 

" Peace on the earth — good-will to men 
From Heaven's Eternal King." 

Light on thy hills, Jerusalem! 

The Savior now is born! 
More bright on Bethlehem's joyous plains 

Breaks the first Christmas morn; 

And brighter on Moriah's brow, 
Crowned with her temple spires, 

Which first proclaim the newborn light, 
Clothed with its orient fires. 

This day shall Christian tongues be mute. 
And Christian hearts be cold ? 

O catch the anthem that from heaven 
O'er Judah's mountains rolled! 

AVhen nightly burst from seraph harps 
The high and solemn lay, — 

"Glory to God ; on earth be peace; 
Salvation comes to-day! " 





GONE BEFORE. 




HEBE'S a beautiful face in the silent air 
Which follows me ever and near, 
With its smiling eyes and amber hair, 
With voiceless lips, yet with breath of pray'r. 
That I feel, but I cannot hear. 



The dimpled hand and ringlet of gold. 

Lie low in a marble sleep; 
I stretch my hand for a clasp of old; 
But the empty air is strangely cold, 

And my vigil alone I keep. 

There's a sinless brow with a radiant crown, 

And a cross laid down in the dust; 
There's a smile where never a shade comes now, 
And tears no more from those dear eyes flow, 
So sweet in their innocent trust. 

Ah, well! and summer is come again, 

Singing her same old songs; 
But oh ! it sounds like a sob of pain 
As it floats in sunshine and in rain, 

O'er the hearts of the world's great throngs. 

There's a beautiful region above the skies, 
And I long to reach its shore, 

341 



842 GEMS OF POETRY. 

For I know I shall find my treasure there, 
The laughing eyes and the amber hair 
Of the loved one gone before. 



A FAREWELL. 



O. KINGSLEY. 



My fairest child, I have no song to give you, 

No lark could pipe to skies so dull and grey, 
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you 
For every day. 

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; 

Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: 
And so make life, death, and that vast for ever 
One grand, sweet song. 





SEEENADE. 



EDWARD COATE PINKNEY. 




OOK out upon the stars, my love, 

And shame them with thine eyes, 
On which, than on the lights above, 

There hang more destinies. 
Night's beauty is the harmony 
Of blending shades and light; 
Then, lady, up, — look out, and be 
A sister to the night! — 

Sleep not ! thine image wakes for aye 

Within my watching breast : 
Sleep not ! — from her soft sleep should fly, 

Who robs all hearts of rest. 
Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break. 

And make this darkness gay 
With looks, whose brightness well might make 

Of darker nights a day. 



343 



WYOMING. 



F, G. HALLEOK. 



KOU com 'st in beauty, on my gaze at last, 
"On Susquehannali's side, fair Wyoming!" 
Image of many a dream, in hours long past, 
When life was in its bud and blossoming, 
And waters, gushing from the fountain spring 
Of pure enthusiast thought, dimmed my young 

eyes, 
As by the poet borne, on unseen wing, 
I breathed, in fancy, 'neath thy cloudless skies, 
The Summer's air, and heard her echoed harmonies. 




I then but dreamed: thou art before me now, 
In life, a vision of the brain no more. 
I've stood upon the wooded mountain's brow. 
That beetles high thy lovely valley o'er; 
And now, where winds thy river's greenest shore, 
Within a bower of sycamores am laid; 
And winds, as soft and sweet as ever bore 
The fragrance of wild flowers through sun and shade, 
Are singing in the trees, whose low boughs press my head. 

Nature hath made thee lovelier than the power 
Even of Campbell's pen hath pictured: he 



344 



WYOMING. B^ 

Had woven, had he gazed one sunny hour 
Upon thy smihng vale, its scenery 
With more of truth, and made each rock and tree 
Known Hke old friends, and greeted from afar: 
And there are tales of sad reality. 
In the dark legends of thy border war, 
With woes of deeper tint than his own Gertrude's are. 

But where are they, the beings of the mind, 
The bard's creations, molded not of clay. 
Hearts to strange bliss and suffering assigned — 
Young Gertrude, Albert, Waldegrave — where are they ? 
We need not ask. The people of to-day 
Appear good, honest, quiet men enough, 
And hospitable too — for ready pay, — 
With manners, like their roads, a little rough. 
And hands whose grasp is warm and welcoming, tho' tough. 

Judge Hallenbach, who keeps the toll-bridge gate. 
And the town records, is the Albert now 
Of Wyoming; like him, in church and state. 
Her Doric column ; and upon his brow 
The thin hairs, white with seventy winters' snow, 
Look patriarchal. Waldegrave 'twere in vain 
To point out here, unless in yon scare- crow. 
That stands full -uniformed upon the plain. 
To frighten flocks of crows and blackbirds from the grain. 

For he would look particularly droll 
In his "Iberian boot" and "Spanish plume," 
And be the wonder of each Christian soul. 
As of the birds that scare- crow and his broom. 
But Gertrude, in her loveliness and bloom, 
Hath many a model here, for woman's eye, 



346 GEMS OF POETRW 

In coui-t 61* cottage, wheresoe'er her home, 
Hath a heart- spell too holy and too high 
To be o'er-praised even by her worshiper — Poesy. 

There's one in the next field — of sweet sixteen — 
Singing and summoning thoughts of beauty born 
In heaven — with her jacket of light green, 
"Love-darting eyes, and tresses like the morn," 
Without a shoe or stocking, — hoeing corn. 
Whether, like Gertrude, she oft wanders there. 
With Shakspeare's volume in her bosom borne, 
I think is doubtful. Of the poet -player 
The maiden knows no more than Cobbett or Voltaire. 

There is a woman, widowed, gray, and old, 
W^ho tells you where the foot of Battle stepped 
Upon their day of massacre. She told 
Its tale, and pointed to the spot, and wept. 
Whereon her father and five brothers slept 
Shrouldless, the bright- dreamed slumbers of the bra\e, 
When all the land a funeral mourning kept. 
And there, wild laurels, planted on the grave, 
By Nature's hand, in air their pale red blossoms wave. 

And on the margin of yon orchard hill 
Are marks where time-worn battlements have been; 
And in the tall grass traces linger still 
Of " arrowy frieze and wedged ravelin." 
Five hundred of her brave that Valley green 
Trod on the morn in soldier-spirit gay; 
But twenty lived to tell the noon- day scene — 
And v/here are now the twenty ? Pass'd away. 
Has Death no triumph-hours, save on the battle day ? 







DEATH'S FIRST DAY. 



[The following beautiful descriptive lines are the best in Byron's 
Giaour {Jour, an infidel;— applied by the Turks to disbelievers in 
Mohammedanism.— l^ebsie?'.) His note annexed to the sucoed- 
ing passages gives an accurate idea of Byron's prose style: 
'•I trust that few of my readers have ever had an opportunity oi 
witnessing what is here attempted in description ; but those whc 
have will probably retain a painful remembrance of that singular 
beauty which pervades, with few exceptions, the features of the 
dead, a few hours, aud but for a few hours, after ' the spirit is not 
there.' It is to be remarked in cases of violent death by gun-shot 
wounds, the expression is always that of langour, whatever the 
natural energy of the sufferer's character; but in death from a 
stab, the countenance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, 
and the mind its bias, to the last."] 

E who hath bent him o'er the dead 
Ere the iirst day of death is fled, 
The first dark day of nothingness, 
The last of danger and distress, 
(Before Decay's effacing fingers 
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers). 
And mark'd the mild angelic air, 
The rapture of repose that's there, 
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak 
The langour of the placid cheek, 
And— but for that sad shrouded eye, 
That fires not, wins not, weeps not now, 
And but for that chill, changeless broWj 

347 




348 GEMS OF POETRY. 

AVhere cold Obstructions' s apathy 

Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 

As if to him it could impart 

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; 

Yes, but for these and these alone, 

Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, 

He still might doubt the tyrant's power; 

So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, 

The first, last look by death reveal'd! 

Such is the aspect of this shore; 

'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! 

So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 

We start, for soul is wanting there. 

Hers is the loveliness in death, 

That parts not quite with parting breath; 

But beauty with that fearful bloom, 

That hue which haunts it to the tomb, 

Expression's last receding ray, 

A gilded halo hovering round decay. 

The farewell beam of Feeling passed away! 

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 

Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish' d eaith ! 




350 




-XT 




THE OLD FAKM GATE. 



E. J. HALL. 




HE old farm gate hangs, sagging down. 
On rusty hinges, bsnt and brown; 
Its latch is gone, and, here and there 
It shows rude traces of repair. 

That old farm gate has seen, each year,; 
The blossoms bloom and disappear: 
The bright green leaves of Spring unfold, 
Anc^ turn to Autumn's red and gold. 

The children have upon it clung, 
And, in and out, with rapture swung. 
When their young hearts were good and pure— 
AVhen hope was fair and faith was sure. 

Beside that gate, have lovers true 

Told the old story, always new; 

Have made their vows, have dreamed of bliss. 

And sealed each promise with a kiss. 

The old farm gate has opened wide 
To welcome home the new-made bride, 
When lilacs bloomed, and locusts fair 
With their sweet fragrance fiUed the air. 

351 



352 GEMS OF POETRY. 

That gate, with rusty weight and chain, 
Has closed upon the solemn train 
That bore her lifeless form away, 
Upon a dreary Autumn day. 

The lichens gray and mosses green 
Upon its rotting posts are seen; 
Initials, carved with youthful skill, 
Long years ago, are on it still. 

Yet dear to me above all things, 
By reason of the thoughts it brings, 
Is that old gate, now sagging down. 
On rusty hinges, bent and brown. 




SONG OF THE PIONEERS. 



W. D. GALLAGHER. 




SONG for the early times out west, 

And our green old forest home, 
Whose pleasant memories freshly yet 

Across the bosom come: 
A song for the free and gladsome life 

In those early days we led. 
With a teeming soil beneath our feet, 
And a smiling heaven o'erhead! 
O the waves of life danced merrily, 

And had a joyous flow. 
In the days when we were pioneers. 
Fifty years ago! 



The hunt, the shot, the glorious chase. 

The captured elk or deer; 
The camp, the big, bright fire, and then 

The rich and wholesome cheer; 
The sweet, sound sleep, at dead of night, 

By our camp-fire blazing high — 
Unbroken by the wolfs long howl. 

And the panther springing by. 
O merrily passed the time, despite 



353 



354 GEMS OF POETRY. 

Our wily Indian foe, 
In the days when we were pioneers. 
Fifty years ago! 

We shunned not labor; when 'twas due, 

We wrought with right good will; 
And, for the home we won for them, 

Our children bless us still. 
We lived not hermit lives , but oft 

In social converse met; 
And fires of love were kindled then. 

That burn on warmly yet. 
O pleasantly the stream of life 

Pursued its constant flow. 
In the days when we were pioneers, 

Fifty years ago! 

We felt that we were fellow-men; 

We felt we were a band 
Sustained here in the wilderness 

By Heaven's upholding hand. 
And, when the solemn Sabbath came. 

We gathered in the wood. 
And lifted up our hearts in prayer 

To Grod, the only Good. 
Our temples then were earth and sky; 

None others did we know 
In the days when we were pioneers. 

Fifty years ago! 

• 

Our forest life was rough and rude. 
And dangers closed us round, 

But here, amid the green old trees, 
Freedom we sought and found. 



SONG OF THE PIONEERS. 355 

• 

Oft through our dwellings wintry blasts 

Would rush with shriek and moan; 
We cared not — though they were but frail, 

We felt they were our own ! 
O free and manly lives we led, ♦ 

Mid verdure or mid snow, 
In the days when we were pioneers, 

Fifty years ago! 

♦ 
But now our course of life is short; 

And as, from day to day, 
We're walking on with halting step. 

And fainting by the way, 
Another land, more bright than this. 

To our dim sight appears, 
And on our way to it we'll soon 

Again be pioneers! 
Yet while we linger, we may all 

A backward glance still throw 
To the days when we were pioneers, 

Fifty years ago! 




BYRON'S FINEST IMAGE. 



[The following lij^es, from Lord Byron's English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers, refer to Henry Kirke White, a too ardent 
student, born at Nottingham, England, March 21, 1785, and died 
at Cambridge, England, Oct. 19, 1806. Byron says of H. K. 
White : " His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the 
reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted 
to talents which would have dignified even the sacred functions he 
was destined to assume."] 

Unhappy "White! while life was in its spring, 
And thy young muse just waved its joyous wing, 
The spoiler came ; and all thy promise fair 
Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. 
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone, 
When Science 'self destroy'd her favorite son! 
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit. 
She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit. 
'Twas thine own genius gave the fatal blow, 
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low: 
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain. 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again. 
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart. 
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart; 
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel, 
He nurs'd the pinion which impelled the steel; 
While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest. 
Drank the last life- drop of his bleeding breast. 

356 




KINDRED HEARTS. 



MRS. HEMANS. 



if-^^^llfH! ask not, hope thou not too much 
||^®K|^ Of sympathy below; 
^'ip^flli^ Few are the hearts whence one same touch 
I^^^Sls) Bids the sweet fountains flow: 
^1^^?'^ Few — and by still conflicting powers 
'^^ Forbidden here to meet — 

Such ties would make this life of ours 
Too fair for aught so fleet. 

It may be that thy brother's eye 

Sees not as thine, which turns 
In such deep reverence to the sky, 

Where ti).e rich sunset burns: 
It may be that the breath of spring, 

Born amidst violets lone, 
A. rapture o'er thy soul can bring — 

A dream, to his unknown. 

The tune that speaks of other times — 

A sorrowful delight 1 
The melody of distant chimes, 

The sound of waves by night,* 
The wind that, with so many a tone, 



358 GEMS OF POETRY, 

Some chord within can thrill, — 
These may have language all thine own, 
To him a mystery still. 

Yet scorn thou not for this, the true 

And steadfast love of years ; 
The kindly, that from childhood grew. 

The faithful to thy tears! 
If there be one that o'er the dead 

Hath in thy grief borne part, 
And watch' d through sickness by thy bed,- 

Call his a kindred heart ! 

But for those bonds all perfect made, 

"Wherein bright spirits blend, 
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade. 

With the same breeze that bend, 
For that full bliss of thought allied. 

Never to mortals given, — 
Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside. 

Or lift them unto heaven ! 




-v^ 




THE WATER LILY. 



FELICIA D. B. HEMANS. 




H! beautiful thou art, 
Thou sculpture-like and stately River-Queen ! 
Crowning the depths, as with the light serene 
Of a pure heart. 

Bright lily of the wave! 
Rising in fearless grace with every swell. 
Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave 
Dwelt in thy cell : 

Lifting alike thy head 
Of placid beauty, feminine yet free, 
Whether with foam or pictured azure spread 

The waters be. 



What is like thee, fair flower. 
The gentle and the firm ? thus bearing up ' 
To the blue sky that alabaster cup, 

As to the shower? 

Oh! Love is most like thee. 
The love of woman; quivering to the blast 
Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast, 

'MidstLife's dark sea. . 



360 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



And Faith- -0, is not faith 
Like thee, too, LJly, springing into light, 
Still buoyantly above the billows' might, 

Through the storm's breath? 

Yes, link'd with such high thought, 
Flower, let thine image in my bosom lie! 
Till something there of its own purity 

And peace be wrought: 

Something yet more divine 
Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed 
Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed, 

As from a shrine. 




THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 



LORD BYEON. 




HE Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and 

gold; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on 
the sea, 
feMV.*} When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Gal- 
ilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen; 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. * • 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast. 
And breath' d in the face of the foe as he pass'd; 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still! 

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, 

But through them there roll' d not the breath of his pride; 

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 

And cold as the spray of the rock beating surf. 

'And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 

361 



862 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! 




ANGEL VISITS. 



MRS. HEMANS. 




RE ye forever to your skies departed? 

Oh! will ye visit this dim world no more ? 
Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendor 
darted 
Through Eden's fresh and flqwering shades 
of yore? 
Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot, 
And ye — our faded earth beholds you not! 

Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken, 
. Man wander' d from his Paradise away; 
Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken, 

Came down, high guests! in many a later day, 
And with the Patriarchs, under vine or oak, 
'Midst^noontide calm or hush of evening, spoke. 

From you, the veil of midnight darkness rending, 
Came the rich mysteries to the Sleeper's eye, 

That saw your hosts ascending and descending 
On those bright steps between the earth and skyj 

Trembling lie woke, and bow'd o'er glory's trace, 

And worship'd, awe-struck, in that fearful place. 



364 GEMS OF POETRY. 

By Chebar's brook ye pass'd, such radiance wearing 

As mortal vision might but ill endure; 
Along the stream the living chariot bearing, 

With its high crystal arch, intensely pure ! 
And the dread rushing of your wings that hour, 
Was like the noise of waters in their power. 

But in the Olive mount, by night appearing, 

'Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was done! 

Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering, 
Fraught with the breath of God, to aid his Son? — 

Haply of those that, on the moon-lit plains, 

Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains. 

Yet one more task was yours ! your heavenly dwelling 

Ye left, and by th' unseal' d sepulchral stone, 
In glorious raiment, sat; the weepers telling, 

That He they sought had triumph'd, and was gone! 
Nowhave ye left ns for the brighter shore, 
Your presence lights the lonely groves no more. 

But may ye not, unseen, around us hover. 

With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet 

Though the fresh glory of those days be over, 

When, 'midst the palm-trees, man your footsteps met ? 

Are ye not near when faith and hope rise high, 

When love, by strength, o'ermasters agony? 

Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining. 

Yields up life's treasures unto Him who gave? 

When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning. 
Lead on the march of death, serenely brave ? 

Dreams! — but a deeper thought our souls may fill — 

One, one is near — a spirit holier still! 



AFTER THE STOBM. 



MRS. ANNIE HOWE (bISHOP) THOMSON. 



A night without of wind and rain, 

And a night in my soul of grief and pain. 

A night without of darkness and gloom, 
And a night in my soul because of a tomb. 

A lonely tomb on the hillside made, 
Under the oak tree's sheltering shade. 

A lowly grave where a loved one lies, 

With the shadow of death on brow and eyes; 

And a pallor that only comes when life 
Is ended, with all of mortal strife. 

With folded hands and a quiet breast: — 
Dear hands that never before knew rest!- 

And close sealed lips that never again, 
AVill make the way of life so plain 

To faltering feet ; nor will I prove 
The sweetness of all their words of love. 

AVhat wonder if anguish fills my breast. 
That sadden my days and break my rest ! 

What wonder if life and its pleasures seem 
But a fitful glow, and a fading dream ! — 



366 . GEMS OF POETRY. 

That I long in the same low bed to lie, 
Under this fair, sweet summer's sky. 

Sleeping my last, long, dreamless sleep, 
From which I shall never awake to weep ! 

But, the night will go and the morning beam. 
And the storm die out as fading dream ; 

And the blue sky smile from its midnight pall, 
With the beautiful sunshine over all : 

So, out of my heart this weary pain. 

With its night of grief and its storm and rain, 

Will one day go, when the morn shall rise, 
Over the hills of paradise : 

And my loved and lost shall walk with me. 
Under the shade of life's fair tree, 

With a beaming eye and a radiant brow, 
Though silent and cold, and moldering now. 

Then heart be still, and patient wait ! 
For soon will open each pearly gate — 

Will open to you on realms of bliss. 
And closing shut out the griefs of this. 





THE FLO WEES' YEAR. 




OR March the violets come; 

For April, daffodillies; 
May and June the roses bloom, 

In July the lilies. 

In August comes the golden-rod, 

Asters in September; 
In October leaves grow red. 
And fall off in November. 

Then the flowers go to sleep, 
In their warm earth-houses; 

Every one through alHhe long 
Winter snow- time drowses. 

But when Spring comes, up they start; 

Stretch their hands a minute — 
"Time to do our Summer's work: 

Violets, you begin it ! " 




A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 



[The following is one of the most beautiful poems ever written 
on the subject. The author is supposed to have been Alfred 
Domett.] 




HjT was the calm and silent night ! 

Seven hundred years and fifty-three 
Had Kome been growing up to might, 

And now was queen of land and sea! 
No sound was heard of clashing wars ; 

Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain; 
Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars, 

Held undisturbed their ancient reign, 
In the solemn midnight 
Centuries ago! 

'Twas in the calm and silent night! — 

The senator of haughty Rome 
Impatient urged his chariot's flight, 

From lordly revel rolling home! 
Triumphal arches 'gleaming swell 

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway; 
What recked the Roman what befell 

A paltry province far away. 
In the solemn midnight 
Centuries ago! 



A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 369 

Went plodding home a weary booi-- 
A streak of light before him lay, 

Fallen through a half-shnt stable door 
Across his path. He passed — for nought 

Told what was going on within; 
How keen the stars! his only thought 
The air, how calm, and cold, and thin, 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago! 

O, strange indifference! low and high 

Drowsed over common joys and cares; 
The earth was still — but knew not why, 

The world was listening — unawares. 
How calm a moment may precede. 

One that shall thrill the world forever! 
To that still moment, none would heed, 

Man's doom was linked no more to sever, 
In the solemn midnight. 
Centuries ago! 

It is the calm and solemn night! 

A thousand bells ring out, and throw 
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite 

The darkness— charmed and holy now! 
The night that erst no shame had worn, 

To it a happy name is given; 
For in that stable lay, new born, 

The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven. 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago. 




WE HAVE SEEN HIS STAR. 

HAT babe new-born is this 
That in a manger lies ? 
Dear on her lowly bed 
His happy mother lies. 

Watching the stars of old, 

Wise men marveled at night, 
When the gilded azure wide unrolled 
With new and wondrous light. 

On from the gates of mom 

They followed the sign afar, 
Saying: " AVhere is the king that is born 

For we have seen his star." 

Long had the world of night 

Waited the promised king; 
She heard 'midst tears of wild delight 

The sweep of the angel's wing. 

The strength of sin was broke, 

Death's fetters scattered far, 
As glad the heavenly chorus woke, 

*' Lo, we have seen his star I" 



370 




QUESTIONS. 



MRS. REBECCA N. HAZARD. 



^'F for the welfare of the tree 

Some branch, though iilled with budding if e, 
Tossed by the wind in dalliance free, 
Is made to feel the pruner's knife, 
Shall it complain ? 

And if to make the border gay, 

When flowers feel the breath of June, 

Some i^lants less fair be cast away 
To fade and wither all too soon, 
Who shall say nay ? 

If in the strife for highest good 

My loss should be another's gain; 
If some weak soul, in sorrowing mood, 

Its peace should purchase through my pain, 
Shall I repine ? 

Or if some thought born of my woe 

A benison to others prove, 
Though waked to life by fiercest throe, 

Should it another's pang remove, 
Can I be sad? 

371 




372 GEMS OF POETRY. 

The answer's plain, and yet, ah me! 

The human heart hath human needs, 
And when 'gainst reason's high decree 

For self and happiness it pleads, 
What can avail ? 



THE SACEED HAEP. 



MRS. r. D. HEMANS. 



How shall the Harp of poesy regain. 

That old victorious tone of prophet-years, 
A spell divine o'er guilt's perturbing fears, 
And all the hovering shadows of the brain ? 
Dark evil wings took flight before the strain. 
And showers of holy quiet, with its fall, 
Sank on the soul : — Oh ! who may now recall 
The mighty music's consecrated reign? — 
Spirit of God! whose glory once o'erhung 
A throne, the Ark's dread cherubim between, 
So let thy presence brood, though now unseen , 
O'er those two powers by whom the harp is strung- 
Feeling and Thought!— till the rekindled chords 
Give the long-buried tone back to immortal words I 




374 



GEMS OF POETBS. 





THE SILENT CHILDREN. 



ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS. 




HE light was low in the school-room, 
The day before Christmas day, 
Had ended. It was darkening in the garden, 
"Where the silent children play. 

Throughout that House of Pity, 
The soundless lessons said. 
The noiseless sport suspended, 
The voiceless tasks all said. 



The little deaf-mute children, 

As still as still could be, 
Gathered about the master, 

Sensitive, swift to see. 

With their fine attentive fingers 

And their wonderful, watchful eyes— 

What dumb joy he would bring them 
For the Christmas eve's surprise! 

The lights blazed out in the school -room : 
The play-ground went dark as death; 

The master moved in a halo; 

The children held their breath. 

375 • 



376 GEMS OF POETRY. 

"I show you now a wonder— 
The Audiphone," he said. 

He spoke in theh^ silent language, 
Like the language of the dead. 

And answering spake the children, 
As the dead might answer too; 

"But what for us, O master? 
This may be good for you; 

"But how is our Christmas coming 

Out of a wise machine? 
For not like other children's 

Have our happy hours been; 

'"And not like other children's 
Can they now or ever be!" 

But the master smiled through the halo; 
"Just trust a mystery. 

" O my children, for a little 
As those who suffer must ! 

Great 'tis to bear denial, 

But grand it is to trust." 

Then to the waiting marvel 

The listening children leant, 

Like listeners, the shadows 

Across the school -room bent. 

Quick signalled then the liiaster, 
Sweet sang the hidden choir— 

Their voices, wild and piercing, 
Broke like a long desire 



THE SILENT CHILDREN. 377 



That to content has strengthened, 
Glad the clear strains outrang: 

*''' Nearer to Thee^ ok, nearer f^ 
The pitying singers sang. 

" JVearer to Thee^ oh^ nearer^ 
Nearer, my God^ to thee I " 

Awestruck, the silent children 
Hear the great harmony. 

Happy that Christmas evening: 
Wise was the master's choice, 

Who gave the deaf-mute children 
The blessed human voice. 

Wise was that other Master, 
Tender His purpose dim, 

Who gave His Son on Christmas, 
To draw us " nearer Him." 

We are all but silent children. 
Denied and deaf and dumb 

Before His unknown science- 
Lord, if Thou wilt, we come ! 



— Wide Awake. 




COUNSEL. 



M. E. W. SHERWOOD. 



mm 

tr..i-/-..r.. Vi'V ■„ ■ '. 




F thou dost bid thy friend farewell, 

Tho' but for one night that farewell may be, 
Press thou his palm with thine! — how canst 
thou tell 
How far from thee 



Fate or caprice may lead his feet. 
Ere that to-morrow comes? Men have been known 
To lightly turn the corner of a street, 
And days have grown 

To months, and months to lagging years. 
Before they looked in loving eyes again. 
Parting, at best, is underlaid with tears, 
With tears and pain. 

Therefore, lest sudden death should come between, 

Or time or distance, clasp with pressure true. 
The hand of him who goeth forth; unseen, 
Fate goeth, too. 

Yea, find thou alway time to say 

Some earnest word between the idle talk; 
Lest with thee henceforth, ever, night and day, 
Regret should walk. 



378 




AFTER-LIFE OF THE POET'S WORKS. 



JOHN KEATS. 




[The following felicitous description is from this unfortunate 
poet's Epistle to his brother George, written in August, 1816, 
which appeared in his first volume of poems in 1817. After de- 
scribing the poet's earthly life and its various experiences, Keats 
says:] 

*HESE are the living pleasures of the bard: 

But richer far posterity's award. 

What does he murmur with his latest breath, 

While his proud eye looks through the film of 
death? 

''What though I leave this dull and earthly 
mould, 

Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold 
With after times. —The patriot shall feel 
My stern alarum, and unsheatli his steel; 
Or, in the senate thunder out my numbers 
To startle princes from their easy slumbers. 
The sage will mingle with each moral theme 
My happy thoughts sententious; he will teem 
With lofty periods when my verses fire him, 
And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him. 
Lays have I left of such a dear delight 
That maids will oing them on their bridal night. 

379 



380 



aEMS OF POETRY. 



Gay villagers, upon a morn of May, 

When they have tired their gentle limbs with play, 

And formed a snowy circle on the grass, 

And placed in midst of all that lovely lass 

Who chosen is their queen, — with her fine head 

Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red: 

For there the lily and the musk-rose, sighing 

Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying: 

Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble, 

A bunch of violets full bloom, and double. 

Serenely sleep : — she from a casket takes 

A little book, — and then a joy awakes 

About each youthful heart, — with stifled cries, 

And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes: 

For she's to read a tale of hopes and fears; 

One that I fostered in my youthful years : 

The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet sleep, ■ 

Gush ever and anon with silent creep. 

Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest 

Shall the dear babe, upon it s mother's breast, 

Be lulled with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu! 

Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view: 

Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions. 

Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions. 

Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air, 

That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair, 

And warm thy sons!" 




A FLOWEE FOE THE DEAD. 




OU placed this flower in her hand, you say ? 
This pure, pale rose in her hand of clay? 
Methinks could she lift her sealed eyes 
They would meet your own with a grieved sur- 
prise. 

She has been your wife for many a year, 
When clouds hung low and when skies were 
clear; 

At your feet she laid her life's glad spring 

And her summer's glorious blossoming. 

Her whole heart went with the hand you won; 
If its warm love waned as the years went on, 
If it chill' d in the grasp of an icy spell. 
What was the reason ? I pray you tell. 

You cannot? I can! and beside her bier 
My soul must speak, and your soul must hear; 
If she was not all that she might have been, 
Hers was the sorrow — yours the sin! 

"WTiose was the fault if she did not grow 
Like a rose in the summer ? Do you know ? 
Does a lily grow when its leaves are chilled ? 
Does it bloom when its root is winter-killed ? 

381 



382 GEMS OF POETRY. 

For a little while, when you first were wed, 
Your love was like sunshine around her shed; 
Then a something crept between you two, 
You led where she could not follow you. 

With a man's firm tread you went, and came; 
You lived for wealth, for power, for fame; 
Shut into her woman's work and ways, 
She heard the nation chant your praise. 

But ah ! you had dropped her hand the while, 
What time had you for a kiss, a smile! 
You two, with the same roof overhead. 
Were as far apart as the sundered dead! 

You in your manhood's strength and prime; 
She — worn and faded before her time. 
'Tis a common story. This rose you say 
You laid in her pallid hand to-day? 

When did you give her a flower before ? 
Ah, well, what matter, when all is o'er? 
Yet stay a moment; you'll wed again; 
I mean no reproach; 'tis the way of men. 

But pray you think, when some fairer face 
Shines like a star from her wonted place. 
That love will starve if it is not fed. 
That true hearts pray for their daily bread. 




A SINGING LESSON. 



JEAN INGELOW. 




NIGHTINGALE made a mistake- 
She sang a few notes out of tune— 
Her heart was ready to break, 
And she hid from the moon. 
She wrung her claws, poor thing, 
But was far too proud to weep ; 
She tuck'd her head under her wing. 
And pretended to be asleep. 



A lark, arm-in-arm with a thrush, 

Came sauntering up to the place; 
The nightingale felt herself blush. 

Though feathers hid her face. 
She knew they had heard her song. 

She felt them snicker and sneer; 
She thought that this life was too long, 

And wished she could skip a year. 

" Oh, nightingale," cooed a dove, 
"Oh, nightingale, what's the use? 

You, a bird of beauty and love, 
Why behave like a goose? 



384 



GEMS OF POETRY. 

Don't skulk away from our sight 
Like a common, contemptible fowl; 

You bird of joy and delight, 
Why behave like an owl ? 

" Only think of all you have done — 

Only think of all you can do; 
A false note is really fun 

From such a bird as j'ou! 
Lift up your proud little crest; 

Open your musical beak; 
Other birds have to do their best, 

But you need only speak." 

The nightingale shyly took 

Her head from under her wing, 
And, giving the dove a look. 

Straightway began to sing. 
There was never a bird could pass — 

The night was divinely calm — 
And the people stood on the grass 

To hear that wonderful psalm. 

The nightingale did not care — 

She only sang to the skies; 
Her song ascended there, 

And there she fixed her eyes. 
The people who listened below 

She knew but little about — 
And this tale has a moral, I know, 

If you'll ti*y to find it out. 




OVER THE KWER. 



NANCIE A. W. PRIEST. 




I^©)VER tlie river they beckon oO me — 

Loved ones who've crossed to the farther 
side ! 
The gleam of their snowy robes I see, 

But their voices are lost in the rushing tida 
There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, 

And eyes, the reflection of heaven's own 
blue; 
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold. 

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. 
We saw not the angels who met him there; 

The gates of the city we could not see: 
Over the river, over the river, 

My brother stands waiting to welcome me! 

Over the river the boatman pale 

Carried another — the household pet; 

Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale- 
Darling Minnie! I see her yet. 

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, 
And fearlessly entered the fantom bark; 

We watched it glide from the silver sands, 



386 



GEMS OF POETRY. 



And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. 
We know she is safe on the farther side. 

Where all the ransomed and angels be: 
Over the river, the mystic river, 

My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 

For none return from those quiet shores 

Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; 
We hear the dip of the golden oars, 

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail, 
And lo! they have passed from our yearning heart; 

They cross the stream, and are gone for aye ; 
We may not sunder the vail apart 

That hides from our vision the gates of day. 
We only know that their barks no more 

May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; 
Yet somewhere,! know, on the unseen shore 

They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold 

Is flushing river, and hill, and shore, 
I shall one day stand by the water cold, 

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar. 
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail: 

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand; 
I shall pass from sight, with the boatman pale, 

To the better shore of the spirit land; 
I shall know the loved who have gone before, 

And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
When over the river, the peaceful river, 

The Angel of Death shall carry me. 



THE EVERLASTING MEMORIAL. 




[The followiug exquisite lines, here complete, are from "Hymns 
of Hope and Faith" by Horatius Bonar, one of the religious laureates 
of "Auld Scotia."J 

P and away, like the dew of the morning, 
Soaring from earth to its home in the sun; 
So let me steal away, gently and lovingly, 
Only remembered by what I have done. 

My name, and my place, and my tomb all for- 
gotten, 

The brief race of time well and patiently run, 
So let me pass away, peacefully, silently, 

Only remembered by what I have done. 

Gladly away from this toil would I hasten. 
Up to the crown that for me has been won; 

Unthought of by man in rewards or in praises, — 
Only remembered by what I have done. 

Up and away, like the odors of sunset, 

That sweeten the twilight as darkness comes on; 

So be my life,— a thing felt but not noticed. 
And I but 1 emembered by what I have done. 



Yes, like the fragrance that wanders in freshness, 



GEMS OF POETRY. 

When the flowers that it came from are closed up and 
gone,— 
So would I be to this world's weary dwellers, 
Only remembered by what I have done. 

Needs there be praise of the love-written record. 
The name and the. epitaph graved on the stone? 

The things we have lived for,— let them be our story, 
We, ourselves, but remembered by what we have done. 

I need not be missed,if my life has been bearing, 
(As its summer and autumn moved silently on) 

The bloom, and the fruit, and the seed of its season; 
I shall still be remembered by what I have done. 

I need not be missed, if another succeed me, 

To reap down those fields which in spring I have sown.; 

He who plowed and who sowed is not missed by the reaper, 
He is only remembered by what he has done. 

Not myself, but the truth that in life I have spoken. 
Not myself, but the seed that in life I have sown. 

Shall pass on to ages,— all about nie forgotten, 

Save the truth I have spoken, the things I have done. 

So let my living be, so be my dying; 

So let my name lie, unblazoned, unknown; 
Unpraised and unmissed, I shall still be remembered; 

Yes,— but remembered by what I have done. 




THINGS OF BEAUTY, 



KEATS. 



A THING of beauty is a joy for ever: 

Its loveliness increases; it will never 

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep 

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. 

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 

A flowery band to bind us to the earth, 

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth 

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days. 

Of all the unhealthy and o'er- darkened ways 

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, 

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, 

Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon 

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils 

With the green world they live in; and clear rills 

That for themselves a cooling covert make 

'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake, 

Eich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: 

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 

We have imagined for the mighty dead; 

AH lovely tales that we have heard or read: 



390 GEMS OF POETRY. 

Ad endless fountain of immortal drink, 
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 

Nor do we merely feel these essences 
For one short hour; no, even as the trees 
That whisper round a temple become soon 
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, 
The passion poesy, glories infinite, 
Haunt us till they become a cheering Hght 
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, 
That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast, 
They always must be with us, or we die. 




CONTRASTS. 

A short June nignt, now brightening fast to dawn; 

A house with doors and windows open wide; 
A silent sick-room, where a dying man 

Lies prostrate in his youth and manhood's pride. 

A bird's sweet carol, entering glad and shrill, 
A bird that sings of Hope, when Hope has fled; 

And the sound smites the watcher with a thrill 
Of agony — as if some voice had said: 

" Weep on — and watch! but I shall sing as sweet 

"Among: the roses — though thv dear ones die; 
And all the world shall pass with careless feet, 
Although thy heart be broken utterly!" 

O little bird! how tuneful was that lay, 
That fell so bitterly on mourner's ears; 

Yet it was summer — and what tongue will say; 
" 'Twere well if Nature too could share our tears!" 




THEOUGH NIGHT TO LIGHT. 



A. LAJGHTON. 



Thy love, dear heart, till closed thy lengthened years^ 

II lamed my being with its tender flame. 

It was no flickering light that went and came, 
Constant it shone through varying hopes and fears, 
Undimmed by sorrow and unquenched by tears. 

Though it hath vanished from the earth away, 

And left a deeper shadow on the day, 
Death does not hide it; for, as one who peers 
Into the dark, bewildered, and descries 
A guiding lamp within the casement set. 
Knowing it homeward leads his weary feet, 
So I, with yearning heart and wistful eyes, 
As in a vision wonderful and sweet, 
Beyond the grave behold it shining jet. 




m 



QUESTIONS AND ANSWEES. 



GOETHE. 



What makes the time run short ? 

Business or busy sport. 
"What makes it long to you ? 

Hands with no work to do. 
What brings debts quickly in? 

Slowness to work and win. 
What makes the glowing gold ? 

The stroke that is quick and bold. 
What man stands near the throne ? 

The man who can hold his own. 




3d3 



LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM:. 



[What could be finer than the following verses penned by Lord 
Byron, at Malta, September 14, 1809, in the album of some other- 
wise forgotten beauty ?] 

As o'er the cold sepulchral stone 

Some name arrests the passer by; 
Thus, when thou view'st this page alone, 

May mine attract thy pensive eye ! 

And when by thee that name is read, 
Perchance in some succeeding year, 

Reflect on me as on the dead, 

And think my heart is buried here. 




m 



^^^^^^k 



MJJj^ 




ALBUM VERSES. 



VARIOUS AUTHORS. 




SOLEMN murmur in the soul 
Tells of the world to be, 

As travelers hear the billows roll 
Before they reach the sea. 



FROM bailey's FESTUS. 

Night brings out stars as sorrow shows us truths. 

It is much less what we do, 
Than what we think, which fits us for the future. 

All aspiration is a toil; 
But inspiration cometh from above, 
And is no labor. 

Respect is what we owe; love what we give, 
And men would mostly rather give than pay. 



We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; 
In feehngs, not in figures on a dial. 
We should count time by heart-throbs. He lives most 
Who thinks most — feels the noblest — acts the best. 



396 GEMS OF POETRY. 

A little word in kindness spoken, 

A motion, or a tear. 
Has often healed the heart that's broken, 

And made a friend sincere. 



The drying np a single tear has more 

Of honest fame than shedding seas of gore. 

— Byron. 

Truth, crushed to earth, will rise again, — 
The eternal years of God are hers; 

ButError, wounded, writhes in pain, 
And dies among his worshippers. 



-Bryant. 



AVhatsoe'er of beauty 
Yearns and yet reposes, 
Blush, and bosom, and sweet breath. 
Took a shape in roses. 



" Woman! " With that word 
Life's dearest hopes and memories come, 
Truth, beauty, love, in her adored, 
And earth's lost paradise restored, 
In the afreen bower of home. 



Beware the bowl ! though rich and bright 
Its rubies flash upon the sight, 
An adder coils its depth beneath. 
Whose lure is woe, whose sting is death. 



ALBUM VERSES. 397 



A smile of hope from those we love, 
May be an angel from above; 
A whispered welcome in our ears, 
Be as the music of the spheres; 
The pressure of a gentle hand, 
Worth all that glitters in the land ; 
O! trifles are not what they seem, 
But fortune's voice and star supreme. 



'Tis not in fate to harm me, 

AVhile fate leaves thy love to me; 
'Tis not in joy to charm me. 

Unless joy be shar'd with thee. 
One minute's dream about thee 

Were worth a long and endless year 
Of waking bliss without thee, 

My own love, my only dear! 

— Tom Moore. 

Only the actions of the just 

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. 

— /. Shirley. 

I could not love thee, dear, so much, 
Loved I not honor more. 

— Sir R. Lovelace. 

To you no soul shall bear deceit, 

No stranger offer \vrong; 
But friends in all the aged you'll meet, 

And lovers in the young. 

— R. B. Sheridan. 



GEMS OF POETRY. 

Eeader, attend, — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. 

In low pursuit; 
Know prudent, cautious self-control 

Is wisdom's root. 



—E. Bur 



I can not give what men call love; 

But wilt thou accept not 
The worship the heart lifts above, 

And the heavens reject not, — 
The desire of the moth for the star. 

Of the night for the morrow. 
The devotion to something afar 

From the sphere of our sorrow ? 

—P.B.Shelley 

Better trust all and be deceived. 

And weep that trust and that deceiving. 

Than doubt one heart that if believed 

Had blessed one's life with true believing. 

O, in this mocking world too fast 

The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth; 

Better be cheated to the last 

Than lose the blessed hope of truth. 

— Frmices Ayme KembU, 

So live, that, when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, that moves 
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death. 
Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night, 



ALBUM VERSES. 



399 



Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, • 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

—W. G. Bryant. 

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; 
Do noble things, not dream them all day long: 
And so make life, death, and that vast for ever 
One grand, sweet song. 

— C. Kingsley. 

Ever your friend 
Till time shall end: — 
Throughout this world of joy and sorrow, 
"Your smile may make. 
For your dear sake, 
More bliss than living else could borrow. 

— Guecsf 




-sr 




%£/^ 



THE FAKSWELL TO IVIY HAEP. 



TOM MOORE. 

Dear Harp of my Country ! in darkness I found thee, 

The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, 
When proudly, my own Island Harp, I imbound thee, 

And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! 
The warm lay of love,and the light note of gladness, 

Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; 
But so oft hast thou echod the deep sigh of sadness. 

That e'en in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. 

Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers, 

This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine, 
Go, sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers, 

Till touched by some hand less unworthy than mine. 
If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, 

Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone, 
I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over. 

And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own! 




400 



FIRST LINES. 



PAGEo 

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun.- 291 

A. drop of spray cast from the Infinite.- 95 

A little word in kindness spoken . 323 

A nightingale made a mistake - 383 

A night without of wind and rain - 365 

A short June night, now brightening fast to dawn - 391 

A smile of hope from those we love - - 397 

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers 149 

A solemn murmur in the soul .-- - 395 

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever --- 389 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea - 40 

A youth went forth to serenade 119 

Above a checkered table they bent - 207 

Afar in the gleaming Orient, the amber gates swing wide 181 

Ah! swan of slenderness, dove of tenderness .246 

"Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st die!" 258 

All aspiration is a toil- ---- -- 395 

All day in the deepening sunlight 218 

And is the swallow gone ? 220 

And thou art dead, as young and fair - 327 

An old farm-house, with meadows wide -.101 

Are ye for ever to your skies departed 363 

As fits the holy Christmas birth 215 

As o'er the cold sepulchral stone - -394 

Away, away, through the sightless air 115 

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight 185 

Beautiful faces are those that wear 26 

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever 399 

Better trust all and be deceived - 87 

401 



402 FIRST LINES. 

Beware the bowl ! though rich and bright .396 

Bird of the wilderness .165 

Blest pair of syrens, pledges of heaveu 's joy 275 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind 226 

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead 167 

But the star that shines in Bethlehem 214 

By Nebo's lonely mountain 282 

By the flow of the inland river 73 

Calm on the listening ear of night _ .339 

Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee. ..-400 

Did you hear that sound of woe - 82 

Drifting along the river, all gleaming 303 

Ever your friend -399 

Farewell! since never more for thee - 86 

Father, whate'er of earthly bliss .130 

Folks were happy as days were long--- 36 

For March the violets come 367 

Gay, guiltless pair- _ - .-- 261 

God hath His solitudes, unpeopled yet - _ - - - 33 

_God of the earth's extended plains 315 

God speaks to hearts of men in many ways 123 

God willed: I was. What he had planned I wrought.- 95 

Go, lovely rose! - 29 

Green be the turf above thee 252 

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings 226 

Harness me down with your iron bands 277 

Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee -.143 

He kept his honesty and truth -- 102 

He meets, by heavenly chance express --- 122 

He who hath bent him o'er the dead-- -347 

High walls and huge the body may confine. -..242 

His falchion flashed along the Nile -.325 

How richly glows the water's breast 267 

How shall the Harp of poesy regain. 372 

How sleep the brave who sink to rest 187 

How sweet it were, if without feeble fright 28 

I am dying, Egypt, dying 287 

I cannot give what men call love - 398 

I come from haunts of coot and hern - 93 



FIRST lilNES. 403 

I could not love thee, dear, so much 397 

1 count myself in nothing else so happy 195 

I know not what awaits me 161 

I lay me down to sleep, with little thought of care 63 

I love to look on a scene like this 331 

I saw thee weep — the big bright tear- 324 

I see before me the Gladiator lie 135 

T sit to-night as audience to my thoughts 105 

I stand by the river, so peacefully shining 85 

I stood on the bridge at midnight 221 

I walk down the Valley of Silence 64 

I was not, and I was conceived . 95 

I'd mourn the hopes that leave me 78 

If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song , 293 

If for the welfare of the tree 371 

If I had known in the morning 75 

If in one poor bleeding bosom 203 

If there shoul d come a time as well there may 49 

If thou dost bid thy friend farewell 378 

In olden time there lived a king 76 

In the dome of my sires as the clear moonbeam falls 273 

In the still air the music lies unheard 24 

In the wood, love, when we parted -.125 

It is much less what we do - -395 

It IS the hour when from the boughs 335 

It was the calm and silent night --- 368 

Lay my babe upon my bosom 271 

Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom 35 

Life ! I know not what thou art - - . 25 

Light after darkness 241 

" Live while you live," the epicure would say 196 

Lonely and wild it rose 248 

Look on his pretty face for just one minute 280 

Look out upon the stars, my love 343 

Meek dwellers 'mid yon terror-stricken cliffs 333 

Mine be a cot beside the hill 266 

My fairest child, I have no song to give you 342 

My Father is rich in houses and lands .-.- 200 

Mysterious night ! when our first parent knew 269 

My life is ia the sere and yellow leaf 25 

JNevei a word is said - 67 



404 FIRST LINES. 

Night brings out stars as sorrow shows us truths 395 

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers 234 

No shoes to hide her tiny toes .270 

Not in the swaying of the summer trees.. 237 

Not she with traitorous kiss her Savior stung. 199 

Not that from life and all its woes 254 

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger 168 

O a wonderful stream is the river Time 263 

O brown lark, loving cloud-land best _ .336 

Oh! ask not, hope thou not too much _ ...357 

Oh! beautiful thou art 359 

O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem 178 

Oh ! the old clock of the household stock 321 

Old fashioned, yes, I know they are 89 

One morning, when Spring was in her teens 179 

Only the actions of the just 397 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake 23 

O soul of mine, look oat and see 96 

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd 45 

Our sweetest and most bitter hours are t hine _ 88 

Over hill, over dale .225 

Over the river on the hill 120 

Over the river they beckon to me 385 

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow 308 

Precious and lovely, I yield her to thee 46 

Reader, attend, — whether thy soul 398 

Respect is what we owe ; love what we give. 395 

Ring on, ring on, sweet Sabbath bell 80 

Seated one day at the organ 141 

See what a lovely shell -.209 

She walks in beauty, like the night 310 

Silence filled the courts of heaven 197 

Sing a low song ! - - 160 

Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares ..-. 228 

Slowly the night is falling 169 

Softly fell the touch of twilight on Judea's silent hills 126 

So live, that, when thy summons comes to join 398 

Some beauties yet no precepts can declare 155 

"Sometime," we say, and turn our eyes 66 

Sometime, when all life's lessons have been learned 61 



FIKST LINES. 405 

South Mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay- .243 

Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou 313 

Such beautiful, beautiful hands _ 235 

The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold 361 

The Beautiful City ! Forever.. 68 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day 55 

The drying up a single tear has more 396 

The earth grows dark about me Ill 

The fairest action of our human life 319 

The fountains mingle with the river 114 

The harp at Nature's advent strung -. 231 

The light was low in the school-room. 375 

The Lord descended from above _ 233 

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 189 

The old farm gate hangs sagging down _ .351 

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose - 17 

The splendor falls on castle walls .- 177 

The Spring is here — the delicate-footed May 250 

The surging era of human life forever onward rolls 211 

The touches of her hands are like the fall 44 

The weary teacher satalone .- 138 

The world is full of glorious likenesses 192 

There are in this loud stunning tide. iii 

There be none of beauty's daughters 306 

There comes a time or soon or late ...^.. 265 

There is many a rest on the road of life. -- 47 

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet 140 

There's a beautiful face in the silent air. 341 

There the most dainty paradise on ground 229 

These are the living pleasures of the bard 379 

They drive home the cows from the pasture - 51 

This globe pourtray 'd the race of learned men 289 

This is the month, and this the happy morn - 103 

This motto I give to the young and the old 311 

Thou com'st in beauty, on my gaze at last - 344 

Three Poets, m three distant ages born - - -236 

Thy love, dear heart, till closed thy lengthened years 392 

Thy voice is like the sea's voice when it makes 292 

"Till death us part" - 107 

"Tiredi" Oh yes! so tired, dear ---- - 32 

Tis not m fate to harm me 397 



406 FIKST LINES. 

To him who, in the love of Nature, holds 255 

To you no soul shall bear deceit .397 

Too late I strayed, forgive the crime -260 

Touch us gently, Time -.43 

Truth, crushed to earth, will rise again... 396 

Twas the eve before Christmas; "Good night! " had been said -296 

Two eyes I see whose sunny blue 100 

Two lovers by a moss-grown spring 153 

Under the greenwood tree _ .226 

Unhappy White, while life was in its spring 356 

Up and away, like the dew of the morning _ .387 

Upon the sadness of the sea .224 

Utterer of many thoughts which else were still .309 

Vital spark of heavenly flame 307 

We all have waking visions — I have mine _. 172 

Weary hearts ! •weary hearts! by cares of life oppressed 38 

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths. 395 

We scatter seeds with careless hand _. 70 

What babe new-born is this 370 

What is noble? 'Tis the finer. 317 

What makes the time run short? 393 

Whatsoe'er of beauty .._ 396 

What was he doing, the great god Pan 133 

What would I have you do ? I'll tell you, kinsman .330 

When I consider how my light is spent 152 

When the humid shadows hover over all the starry spheres 304 

When the mists have rolled in splendor -'. 239 

When the song's gone out of your life 218 

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 188 

Where the bee sucks, there lurk I 225 

Where the rocks are gray and the shore is steep 285 

"Which shall it be, which shall it be ? " 204 

Who has robbed the ocean cave 99 

Who will care? 268 

Wing'd mimic of the woods ! thou motley fool 113 

Within the flower-lined casket she was laid 124 

Within the sun-flecked shadows of a forest glade -- 31 

"Woman!" With that word 396 

Word was brought to the Danish king 19 



FIRST LINES. 407 

Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief 247 

"You liave heard," said a youth to his sweetheart who stood--- 18 

You placed this flower in her hand, you say 381 

You remember the time when I first sought your home 318 




Our Kover. 



THE AUDIPHONE, 



GOOD NEWS FOR THE DEAF. 



An Instrument that Enables Deaf Persons to Hear Ordinary Con- 
versation Readily Through the Medium of the Teeth, and 
those Born Deaf and Dumb to Hear and Learn 
to Speak. How it is Done, Etc. 



The Aiidiphone is a new instrument made of a peculiar 
composition, possessing the properly of gathering the faint- 
est sounds (somewhat similar to a telephone diaphragm), 
and conveying them to the auditory nerve, through the 
medium of the teeth. The external ear has nothing what- 
ever to do in hearing with this wonderful instrument. 

It is made in the shape of a fan, and can be used as such, 
if desired. 

When adjusted for hearing, it is in suitable tension and 
the upper edge is pressed slightly against one or more of 
the upper teeth. 

Ordinary conversation can be heard with ease. In most 
cases deafness is not detected, it being generally supposed, 
as is the experience of the inventor, that t\ ^ party deaf, is 
simply amusing himself with the fan. 

The instrument also greatly facilitates conversation by 
softening the voice of the person using it, enabling — even 
in cases of mutes — the deaf party to hear his own words 
distinctly. 



2 THE AUDIPRONE. 

FROM PERSONS USINO THE AVBIPHONE. 

The following testimony is in all respects authentic, and in every 
instance has come to Ehodes & McClure, unsolicited. The same is 
also true concerning the notices " From the Press." 



? " I hear ordinary conversation with ease, and it is a wonder to me every time I use it. 

' Sounds that 1 had not heard lor years and had quite forgottt-.n came back distinctly, and 
the more I use it the better I like it. 

"Oct. 9, 1879. " Salem, Mass." 

" I attend church, hear perfectly six pews from the desk, and can not hear the miniS' 
ter* s voice without the Audiphone. I go to lectures and concerts, and, in short, am 
alive again and a part of the world. Sometimes I think my Audiphone is bewitched, it 
works so well. 

" Dec. 13, 1879. (Second Letter.] 

" The Audiphone came O. K. By its aid I am now able to join in general conversa- 
tion, which I have not been able to do for eighteen years. 

" Nov. 21, 1879. " Cleveland, O." 

" The 'Phone at hand ; and on trial even more satisfactory than could be expected at 
first use. My wife and friends are delighted and enthusiastic over it. They are rejoiced 
that I can hear, and I am glad that it no longer requires an effort on their Dart to enable 
me to do so. 
" Oct. 4, 1879. " Peoria, Ills." 

Philadelphia, Pa., Nov. 15. 
" Messrs. Rhodes & McClure.— The Audiphone arrived safely, and I hasten to assure 
you of its perject success for my hearing. In ordinary conversation I can not use it 
against th ■ eye-teeth as it makes the voices too loud, although the Audiphone is scarcely 
drawn. I entered into general conversa ion with perfect ease, last evening, for the first 
time for five or six years. A melodeon or piano I hear distinctly at great distances. 
Reading aloud is also easily heard. My family and friends are so rejoiced at my success, 
and regard the instrument in wonder. My physician is delighted with it, and thinks, as 
my deafness arose greatly from nervousness, that the Audiphone will stimulate the audi- 
tory nerve, and possibly benefit or restore my sense of'hearing. The terrible strain being 
taken from my mind gives me such rest and good spirits that I almost forget my deafness. 
" Yours very truly, 

" Messrs. Rhodes & McClure. — The Audiphone, per Adams' Express, arrived all right, 
and my wife is delighted with it. She has been to the theater and other public entertain- 
ments, and for the first time in twelve years was she able to hear all that was said, 
" Dec. 9, 1879. Baltimore, Md." 

" My Audiphone is the wonder of the day. It helps me wonderfully in conversation. 

Montrose, Pa." 

" My deafness is of long standing, having originated from an attack of scarlet fever 
more than thirty years ago. The hearing in each ear is defective and in one almost com- 
pletely impaired. The Audiphone forwarded has been tested in ordinary conversation 
and also by attendance upon the opera and perfectly subserves the purposes for which it 
was intended. My hearing when using the instrument is as acute as though no infirmity 
existed and the effect of the use of the instrument has appreciably toned up and improved 
the auditory organs — so much so as to have attracted the attention of my family. 

" I have exhibited the instrument to several friends afflicted with deafness. 



" Nov. 28, 1879. Washington, D. C. 

" I find that the more accustomed I become to the use of my Audiphone the better 

results do I obtain, and having been quite deaf for over thirty years I can assure you it is 

a great gratification to be able to attend any place where public speaking is going on and 

hear all that is uttered by the speakers— a pleasure that has been denied me all that time, 

Nov. 26, 1879. N«w York." 



26 THE A. UDIPHONE, 

"■ A man deafer than Edison has shown, by the Audiphone, that people born deaf or 
made deaf by disease, can actually be made to hear to a greater or less extent." — Detroit 
Free Press. Nov. 25, 1879. 

" It is valuable, and will materially help in the education of children like those at the 
Deaf and Dumb Asylum, and will doubtless prove an effective aid to the many people,of 
impaired hearing. Its discovery therefore is a cause for congratulation, and its attractive 
appearance and convenience for use, so different from the old-fashioned ear trumpet, will 
serve to bring it largely into use." — Hart/ord {Conn.) Courant. 

"Deaf mutes were able to hear the music of the piano when at a considerable distance 
from the instrument." — N. Y. Observer's Reportj)/ Private Exhibition. 

" This wonderful invention promises to be one of great value." — Ilhistrated N. Y. 
Christian Weekly. 

" Tests were satisfactorily applied to several members of a class of deaf mutes who were 
present, and the pleasure at hearing sound evinced by one young girl was most interest- 
ing and touching. A new organ, or a new use for an organ, is discovered, if not created." 
— From Jenny june^s Letter in Baltitnore American. Dec. i, 1879. 

" At last the deaf are made to hear. Failing to hear through the front door of the 
ear the Audiphone carries it to the back." — Concord {N. H.) Daily Monitor. Nov. 25. 

" The deaf-mutes were enabled to distinguish the difference between sounds, and en- 
joyed the singing of one of the ladies." — New York Tribune's Report of Exhibition. 
Nov. 22, 1879. 

" The Audiphone, for the deaf, is likely to supersede the ear trumpet altogether; is 
not at all objectionable to carry or to use, and enables thousands who never heard a sound 
in their lives to distinguish letters, words and music for the first time." — Church Union. 
November 29, 1879. 

" In this invention Mr. Rhodes has proved himself a benefactor."— 7>%^ Standard. 
Sept. 25, 1879. 

" The fact of hearing through the medium of the teeth has long been known, but it 
has remained for the inventor of the Audiphone to utilize this fact for the benefit of the 
afflicted."— A^^7£/ York Star. Nov. 22, 1879. 

" A class of deaf-mutes were present, and the 

tests with them were quite satisfactory. Some heard the notes of the piano for the first 
time." — New York Evangelist' s Report 0/ New York Exhibition. Nov. 27, 1879. 

" Seems to discount any of the instruments invented by Edison to aid the hearing." — 
New Orleans Tifnes. Nov. 27, 1879. 

" The invention will have practical value."— iVifw York Herald. 

" It is all the inventor claims it to be." Evansville {Ind.) Journal. Nov. 30, 1879. 

" The Trial was an eminent success." — Boston Traveler. Dec. 2, 1879. 

" Has proved a signal success." — Albany (iV. K.) Press. 

" Would be easily mistaken for a fan." — Democrat and Chronicle, 



"Will practically restore to speech and hearing a large class of afflicted persons." — 
Toronto {Canada) Mail. Dec. 5, 1879. 

" Great benefit to those partially dea.i." —Providence {R. I.) Journal. Nov 6, 1879. 

" Earlier reports are fully borne out by later experiments."— Z^^wz'^'r Times. Decem- 
ber 6, 1879. 

. " A new and ingenious device by which the deaf are enabled to hear through the 
medium of the teeth."— A'^w York Graphic. Nov. 21, 1879. 

" One of the wonders of this day of telephones, phonographs and the like, is the 
Audiphone, invented by Richard S. Rhodes, of Chicago, which enables deaf people to 
hear with their teeth. People who have once heard, but have grown deaf, and thus know 
the meaning of sounds and can talk themselves, practically have perfect hearing restored 
by the use of the A\iA\-()\ione.''' —Spring/ieid Republican. 

" Had it in our possession not more than two minutes before we were satisfied that i 
was at least all that we anticipated, but have since found it to be much superior to antici 
pations. Besides, we find it to improve by use,.also to improve our natural hearing, whic' 
is remarkable." — Philadelphia^ Nov. 26, 1879. 

' With a little practice the sounds thus received are interpreted the same as if they 
reached the ne-ves of hearing through the ^ax.'— Scientific American. 



FROM THE PRESS. 5 

*' Seems to discount any of the instruments invented by Edison to aid the hearing." — 
New Orleans Times. Nov. 27, 1879. 

" The invention will have practical value." — New York Herald. 

" It is all the inventor claims it to be." Evansville {Ind.) Journal. Nov. 30, 1879. 

" The Trial was an eminent success." — Boston Traveler. Dec. 2, 1879. 

" It has been tested with remarkable results 
Dr. Footers Health Monthly. December, 1879. 

"The Audiphone, for the deaf, is likely to supersede the ear trumpet altogether; is 
not at all objectionable to carry or to use, and*enables thousands who never heard a sound 
in their lives to distinguish letters, words and music for the first time." — Church Union. 
November 29, 1879. 

" Immense value for the deaf." — The Fader neslandet. Sept., 1879. 

*' The deaf, who had only heard conversation by its being shouted in a very loud tone 
or by the use of the ear trumpet, found that they could hear conversation in the ordinary 
tone with considerable ease. . — Providence (JH. I.) Journal Report of Experiments in 
Providence, R. I. 

" Has proved a signal success." — Albany {N. V.) Press. 

" Would be easily mistaken for a fan." — Democrat and Chronicle, 



" Will practically restore to speech and hearing a large class of afflicted persons."— 
Toronto (^Canada) Mail. Dec. 5, 1879. 

"■ Great benefit to those partially deaf." — Providence (/?. /.) Journal. Nov 6, 1879. 

" Earlier reports are luUy borne out by later experiments." — Denver Times. Decem- 
ber 6, 1879. 

" Mr Rhodes was warmly congratulated by the company, and Mr. Peter Cooper spoke 
of his invention as a blessing and a godsend to the afflicted." — Correspondent's Report 0/ 
New York Exhibition, in Chicago Inter-Ocean. Nov. 29. 

" A new and ingenious device by which the deaf are enabled to hear through the 
medium of the teeth." — New York Graphic. Nov. 21, 1879. 

" One of the wonders of this day of telephones, phonographs and the like, is the 
Audiphone, invented by Richard S. Rhodes, of Chicago, which enables deaf people to 
hear with their teeth. People who have once heard, but have grown deaf, and thus know 
the meaning of sounds and can talk themselves, practically have perfect hearing restored 
by the use of the Audiphone." — Springfield Republican. 

" Had it in our possession not more than two minutes before we were satisfied that it 
was at least all that we anticipated, but have since found it to be much superior to antici- 
pations. Besides, we find it to improve by use, also to improve our natural hearing, which 
is remarkable." — Philadelphia, Nov. 26, 1879. 

" With a little practice the sounds thus received are interpreted the same as if they 
reached the nerves of hearing through the ear." — Scientific American. 



The Audiphone is Patented throughout the civilized world. 



:e> I^ I O E: 

Conversational, small $6^00 

Conversational, large $6.00 



Tlie Audiphone will be sent to any address, on receipt of price, by 
RHODES & McCLURE, 

Agents for the World, 

152 DEARBORN STREET, CHICAGO, ILL. 

(Andipboue Parlors, Adjacent to the Office.) 



Great Speeches I 
WIT, WISDOM AND ELOQUENCE 

OF 

COL. R. G. INGERSOLL, 

Illustrated; 8vo, 156 pages, cloth and gold, 
PRICE, $1. 



REPLIES 

TO 

INGERSOLL ON THOMAS PAINE 

BY 

Dr. Croodwiii. Itisliop Fallows, James Maclawglilin, Prof. 

IVilcox, H»r. Hatfield, Dr. Blaelcbnrii. Siiueou 

Cwilbert, l»ere tlyaciiitlie, and ©titers. 

INCLUDING, ALSO, 

INGERSOI^L'S LECTURE ON THOMAS PAINE. 

8vo, 158 pages, cloth and gold. 

PRIC E, $1. 

MISTAKES OF INGERSOLL, 

AND Ills 

ANSWERS COMPLETE. 



This volume contains Ingersoll's Lectures, 

" Mistakes of Moses," "What Shall We Do to be Saved?" 

"Skulls." "Thomas Paine." 

"Funeral Oration at His Brother's Grave," with Comments on same by 
Henry Ward Beeoher, Isaac N. Arnold, and others. 
Also, criticisms on all of his lectures, by Prof, Swing, W. H. Ryder, D. D., 
J. Monro Gibson, D. D., Brooke Herford, D. D., Rabbi Wise, Rev.W. F. Crafts, 
Chaplain C. C. McCabe, D. D., Arthur Swazy, D. D., Robert Collyer, D. D., 
Bishop Fallows, Dr. Thomas, Dr. Loruner, Dr. Courtney, Prof. Courtney, Prof. 
Curtis, Dr. Go >dwin. Kev, James McLaughlin, Prof. Wilcox, Dr. Hatfield, Dr. 
Blackburn, Simeon Gilbert, Pere Hyacinthe, and others. 

Edited by J. B. McClure. Beautifully bound in cloth and gold; 8vo, 600 
pages. Illustrated. 

PRICE, $2. 

Any of the above books tvill be sent by mail, jiost-paid, on receipt 
of price. 

Rhodes &l MpQlure, Publishers, 

CHICAGO ILL. 



D. L. MOODY'S 

AMDOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 



COMPRISING ALL OF MR. MOODY'S ANECDOTES AND ILLUS- 
TRATIONS USED BY HIM IN HIS 

Revival Work in Europe and America ; 

ALSO 

Engpaviiig^ of Me^^i"^. ]V|oodi}, ^m\z% 

Whiitle & Bliss, Moody's Church, Chicago Tabernacle, Farwell Hall, Etc. 

A handy and handsome volume which many will prize.— New York Evan-- 
gelist. 

It is a good insight into the workings and teachings of the great Evangelist. 
x7ein Yoi'h Daily Democrat. 

A book of anecdotes which have thrilled hundreds of thousands.— Presft^/- 
terian Banner. 

The book has been compiled by J. B. McCluke, whose scholarship and 
journalistic experience perfectly fits him to do the work discriminate! y and 
well.— iV^. W. Christian Advocate. (Ivlcthodist.) 

Beautifully bound in cloth and gold ; 8 vo. , 200 pages. Illustrated, 

Price $1.00. 

MOODY'S CHILD STORIES; 

OR, 

STOEIES ABOUT CHILDREN. 

The universal verdict of press and public is that for juvenile literature, 
these stories and sketches are unequalled in the language. Purity, pith and 
point, instructive and entertaining is the character of this work, and it should 
be in the hands of every child in America. 

8 vo., 150 pages, handsomely illustrated. Edited by J. B. McCluee. 

Price $1.00. 

Any of the above books will be sent by mdil, post-paid, on re- 
ceipt of price. 

^ Rhodes & MeClure, Publishers, 

- - - OHIOAGO ILL. 




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